


Moving Target

by Toobizi



Series: All Laid Out [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Eventual Smut, Good Bro Tim Drake, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, M/M, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Roy Harper, Psychological Trauma, Sleep Deprivation, and therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:29:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toobizi/pseuds/Toobizi
Summary: Just fuckingfuck. Dick didn’t even do anything, so what the hell is wrong with him, spazzing out at nothing, at his first chance at a little fun. He imagines what he must have looked like through Dick's eyes and can vividly picture what he saw: Jason acting so scared and helpless and weak and stupid and—just—fucking —Goddamnit.Or, Jason isn't sleeping, Dick doesn't know what to do, and Tim just doesn't want to get shot at (again).
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Everyone, Roy Harper & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: All Laid Out [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620478
Comments: 121
Kudos: 597





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts where part 1 leaves off, so I stuck a summary at the bottom of that one if ya don't want to read it at length. I know that's not for everyone so read tags!

Jason wakes up all at once like he's been internally electrified, his stomach dropping with deep dread and his heart rate kicking up without his permission. _Fucking hell_. With the amount of times Jason's woken up God knows where—shipping containers, cemeteries, rooftops, warehouses, once in archives of Gotham Public Library—his body should be conditioned out of any kind of panic response. It's not useful.

He carefully keeps his eyes shut and his breathing slow while he tries to orient himself, even as his pulse protests. It throbs against his throat and temples, like his heart is chanting _move, move, move_. He tells it to shut up, willing it to _fucking calm down_.

He can hear someone puttering around in the other room, a pan clanging. Jason pinches the sheets between his fingers. He's on an unfamiliar bed, tucked under the covers. Not a safe house then, and not alone. But seemingly not in immediate danger. He's fully clothed, in what feels like sleepwear too. Had he been in Hood gear? He doesn't know if his identity has been compromised, doesn’t know if it matters; he doesn’t really exist anyways.

He’s not being attacked or restrained, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a threat. He doesn’t know if he’s being watched and he doesn’t want to make himself a target yet for whoever is here. Then again, there's only a handful of people who Jason knows he doesn't have a fighting chance against, and laying there like a dead possum won't give him an advantage over those people, so fuck it. What are the chances Wonder Woman has nefariously kidnapped him and is now—what? Making breakfast? Sure. That's likely. Does she even know he's alive?

He opens his eyes.

He’s not expecting to see the inside of Roy’s bedroom.

It’s the ugly floral wallpaper that gives it away, peeling in great strips on the far wall. The first time Jason saw it he told Roy that his room looked like the abandoned love shack of an elderly woman. It still does.

Jason's body has deemed this safe territory because it's rapidly calming— _because his fucking traitor body doesn't listen to him but is soothed by ugly wallpaper because why not_ —but he still doesn't know why's _he's_ here. He feels slow, like the answer should be obvious.

He blinks and there's a vague recollection of Roy's face looming over him, the blur of city lights from a car window, Roy maneuvering him into an elevator. And now he’s tucked into Roy’s bed like some sickly prairie child.

His first thought is alcohol, even though Jason knows he couldn’t have gone on a bender, despite feeling wrung out (like what a hangover might feel like when someone’s got the counterpoint of Lazarus Pit magic in their blood, metabolizing alcohol at a rate he knows isn't normal).

He knows he didn't go on a bender because he never would have called Roy to come get him if he had. Roy has kicked all substances and Jason wouldn’t bring that shit around him. Wouldn’t disrespect his recovery like that. Besides, heavy drinking has always been more Bruce's M.O.

Switching gears, he maps out the previous day in his head: he had checked in with his guys on an upcoming shipment, took out a few kneecaps of an encroaching gang (trying to play by the damned bats’ rules for reasons he still doubts are worth it), staked out a job site, and then he went over to—

Right.

Dick’s apartment.

And he and Dick. . .

Fuck.

The sudden recollection of last night is so disjointed it almost doesn’t make sense. Dicks hands, his own anticipation, and then a dream—a nightmare—of another memory tangled up in what was supposed to be something simple and nice. It's the opposite of waking up with a pounding heart. It's a sudden dampening of feeling, a cold realization of an unwanted reality.

Jason can only lay there in numb disbelief, staring at the peeled wallpaper.

It's kind of funny in a distant sort of way that he can’t even place the fragmented dream-events with absolute certainty. His memories of childhood pre-Batman are, at best, mostly one amalgamated blend of anger and fear anyways. But he knows that they happened, if only to another him in another life. They don’t belong here, there was no reason for him to be thinking about them, they don’t matter anymore. He wants to deny that he let them matter, but he can remember Dick calling his name and he was thousand fucking miles away.

Just fucking _fuck._ Dick didn’t even do anything, so what the hell is wrong with him, spazzing out at nothing, at his first chance at a little fun. He imagines what he must have looked like through Dick's eyes and can picture it vividly—Jason acting so scared and helpless and weak and _stupid_ and—just—fucking — _Goddamnit._

Rage sweeps through his body and it’s sudden and shocking and visceral, taking him with such force that he's nearly shaking with it. He can't believe how royally he has fucked things up. It's almost funny, it's so fucking unbelievable.

If he could just burn the memory of last night. Burn the memory that took him out of his own head. He wants to choke it out, smother it into nonexistence, tear into it with his bare hands like bloody claws into a carcass.

Last night is just going to be more proof to them that he’s a walking nut case. He wouldn’t be surprised if it got back to Batman, added to his surely extensive file on Jason’s behavioral issues, each flagged and recorded so that down the road they can point at his trail of missteps and say, _see, he’s compromised, there’s too much damage to salvage anything_.

He’s knows that he’s not meant for any of this lovey-dovey shit. He’s only ever been good at creeping around Gotham's underbelly, living a life that revolves around crime—controlling it, beating it, killing it, willingly doing it when needed. He’s a fucking idiot for thinking he could ever play house with Dick. He doesn't know what he was _thinking_. He hadn’t been. His fingers itch for a trigger and he clenches his hands into fists until they ache.

He’s not going to shoot out Roy’s ugly bedroom. He doesn't even have a gun on him for once.

The rage is familiar, and he breathes with it, doesn't fight it—doesn't think he can—but lets it fill him, grits his teeth and shakes through it until it inevitably begins to bleed out of his body. That doesn’t always work, but he’s mildly grateful he’ll be able to avoid a violent spree this early in the morning. He has to keep a tight leash on excessive violence if he wants to keep Bruce off his back. Whatever the hell _excessive_ means, like Bruce is one to talk.

He lays there for too long. He forces himself to not think about Dick. Or about anything, really. 

He waits until he doesn't feel like stabbing anyone, until his body falls back into an almost resigned numbness. He has stuff that needs done that day. He can't wallow in Roy's bed all day, though it's actually probably been no more than thirty minutes. He doesn't know, he doesn't have his phone. When he gets up, he feels shaky in a way he hasn't been for years. He's fine. It's fine. He'll deal with it. It's not the first time his brain has dealt him emotional whiplash in such quick succession— _thank you, Lazarus Pit._ His sarcasm is intact, at least. He'll deal with Dick. It's not the first time he's had to deal with batshit either. Ha.

He stumbles his way into the short hallway bathroom and then out into the kitchen.

—

Roy's apartment is small, and questionably decorated—the kitchen area is a garish lime-green left over from the last tenant—but it's warm and mostly clean in the way that counts, and the couch that Roy has crammed into the space is comfortable. Jason knows, he's passed out on it many nights.

Roy himself is sitting at the table leaning over a half-eaten omelet and a bowl of cereal. He has a pile of what looks like tech schematics laid out in front of him and his red hair is matted down on one side. He looks up when Jason comes in and gives him a muffled _hey_ through a mouthful of cereal, which just sounds like _hmm._

Jason grunts back in greeting, passing him to pull a bowl and spoon from the cupboard. He's not a morning person, and this hasn't been a great morning. He sits at the table across from Roy and Roy wordlessly pushes the cereal and milk towards him. He busies himself with pouring his own bowl. He doesn't think about Dick.

Jason doesn't technically live here, but he's been crashing here at least half the nights in the last two months, so he guesses that it's more home than the handful of safe houses he rotates between. Roy lets him chip in with the rent, plus he happens to know Roy likes the company. Who else would give Roy shit about his terrible taste in _almost everything_.

There’s a blanket flung over the back of the couch and a pillow peaking out by the armrest. Roy must have slept out here last night. After he tucked Jason into his own bed. After driving halfway across the city to pick him up. Jesus, Jason doesn't deserve him.

"Hey, Harper." Jason breaks their silence, stirring his cereal. "Thanks." It’s insufficient, but it’s all he’s got right now. He’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

Jason wonders for a second if Roy might think he’s talking about the cereal, but when he glances up Roy is looking at him like he knows exactly what he’s talking about.

"Don't sweat it,” he says. “You working today?"

God bless him for leaving it at that; Jason knows he has to have questions.

"Yeah." Jason says, because he does actually need to play crime boss today. Probably should patrol tonight too, even with the lower winter crime rates. "You?"

"Just have some errands to run." Roy leans back and grins. "You're gonna flip your shit when you see what I'm making."

Jason huffs in amusement at Roy's excitability, then takes a big bite before speaking through a mouthful, not in the mood for manners. "That doesn't sound like much of a reward. To be clear, can you flip my shit for me, or do I have to do the flipping?"

"Hardy-har-har." Roy intones with an eyeroll, pushing the papers aside in favor of finishing his own breakfast. "If you insult my tech I'm gonna make you eat your shit." 

"If I'm disappointed, I get to pick the next show we watch."

"You say that like you don't pick it every time. I never get to pick anymore."

"Not my fault you have terrible taste in entertainment." Jason waves his spoon at Roy. "I refuse to watch one more episode of _The Bachelor_."

"C'mon, it's pure comedy. Don't you want to be informed about pop culture?"

"No," Jason says, and pours himself a second bowl.

He is actually looking forward to seeing what Roy is making. He never disappoints, and it's usually something very useful for Red Hood. Maybe it'll be some kind of reinforced body army.

Roy's got his Arsenal gear here too, but he rarely patrols in Gotham, says it has enough vigilantes as it is. Jason suspects he chose Gotham specifically for its vigilante crowd, so he doesn't feel the pressure to be _the hero of the night_ or whatever.

Jason often tells him he's an idiot for choosing Gotham for a sabbatical, and that he should go somewhere nice. Like Fiji. Roy tells him tourism is destroying native cultures. Jason tells him Fiji has great water. It's a whole thing.

He’s done after four bowls and stands to clear his dishes.

"I plugged your phone in over there." Roy jerks a thumb towards the counter. "And I think you have some extra clothes in the closet."

Jason grabs his phone from the counter on his way to Roy's room. He changes into his own clothes before he finally swipes his phone open. There are no messages from Dick.

—

The whole morning has thrown him off-kilter. He hasn't had to _feel_ like that in a long time and it's fucking irritating. He shoves all thoughts about Dick fucking Grayson—and about fucking Dick Grayson—into a box in the corner of his mind, imagining it's one of those heavy duty metal safes, and then imagining locking it in a dark, empty room for good measure. He won't let it affect his work. Jason can posture at will and it’s easy to reach for the mask. It's not even much of a mask; he always follows through on his threats.

His resolve immediately goes to shit when he realizes he doesn't have his helmet with him. Because he stashed it. Before going to Dicks. In a safe house that’s now all the way across town. 

Hell. It’s not even noon and Dick has derailed his day what feels like fifty times over. It’s not welcome today, just a reminder of what he can’t have anymore. He forces the thought away. It's fine. He has time to get his helmet. And another pistol, because he only had one at Roy's and he likes the weight of a gun in each hand, and because he's pretty sure he left a gun at Dick's place.

There's no way in hell that he's going to ask for it back right now. Dick still hasn't messaged him. Which is fine. Good, even. Maybe they don't need to have some kind of hash out. They can just go back to the way things were before they started hanging out: occasionally seeing each other silhouetted on a distant rooftop.

He takes his motorcycle, weaving between the last of the morning traffic rush, the familiar rumble of the engine an odd assurance after the shit-show of last night. And this morning. _Stop thinking about it._

All of his safe houses are basically off-the-grid rat holes, but they're stocked with firearms, medical supplies, and nonperishable foods. He doesn't like to keep all his guns in one place in case they're seized by GCPD or the Bats. He won't need to replace them all if one apartment gets burned.

He ends up grabbing his helmet and the pistol, as well as a large combat knife and a lightweight Kevlar vest; it's thermal insulated, and even though Jason usually runs warm, it's fucking February in Gotham and the leather jacket doesn't always cut it.

Then it’s off to his day job.

—

Jason rolls up behind Club Casanova just after noon, cuts the engine, and keeps the helmet on. The club is owned by the cousin of one of his top guys, who Jason has vetted, and its relatively good cover for face-to-face meetings. Or face-to-helmet, as it were. It's an old brick building, and they meet in the open space of the top floor in what he assumes would otherwise be the business's office. It even has a large, mahogany desk, along with a smattering of other furniture.

The space isn't ideal for noise control in the club's off hours, what with its rafter ceilings and rickety wooden floor covered with only the thinnest of rugs. But if he needs to interrogate someone—or cut off a few fingers—there's also the cellar.

Dick found him at this club a few weeks ago, not while he was dismembering a rival drug dealer with a dirty supply, but after Jason had dropped off a payment during peak clubbing hours, using it to slip in unmasked to avoid announcing that Red Hood was in the building. Dick just appeared from the shadows. _What a surprise, Jay, I could've sworn you were more of a brooding-at-a-bar type of guy, all Casablanca style._ Apparently, everyone knew clubs weren't his thing.

Dick was all hands and smiles and Jason was weak for it after a long day. Dick bought him drink, something strong, then another, something disgustingly fruity, then another, until he was pleasantly buzzed, enjoying the way Dick was pressed up against him in the small booth despite the loud, pulsating music and strobing lights.

Then Dick was giving him a sinful look and pulling him into the throng of gyrating bodies, where it was hot and crowded with no clear sightlines, and Dick was suddenly plastered to the front of his body, a muscled thigh pressing up between Jason's. Dick had draped his arms around Jason's shoulders and ran his hands through Jason's hair, turning his head to talk directly into his ear, _Put your hands on my hips. Good. Now relax_ , _Little Wing_ and then Dick was moving his hips circles, creating delicious pressure between them.

Dick was publicly teasing him, and his mind shorted out that Dick was actually grinding on him at a club, tongue wet and teeth sharp against the side of Jason's throat. Then Jason's hands were on Dick's ass and music was louder than any thought, and it was Jason who caught Dick in a searing kiss. Jason was buzzed and achingly hard and there were people absolutely everywhere.

He hated it. He also loved it.

_Christ Dammit. Fucking stop. What happened to not thinking about Dick Grayson._

Jason knows he's going to have to somehow get it in his own head that those days are over. Dick equals sex, and his own brain has made it clear that that’s going to turn into a shit storm sooner or later. Rehashing his past isn't worth the chance at getting laid in any form. If the eventual backlash is being uncontrollably forced to show his soft underbelly, he doesn't think it's a payoff he's equipped to handle.

He enters the club office and Thomas and Warren are both there with a couple of their lackeys, playing poker at a table near the back of the room. They both look up. Jason waves them towards the desk, and the lackey's clear out. They’ll be briefed later.

Jason sits in the leather rolling chair behind the desk. It’s a ridiculous chair, high-backed and tufted, and he knows someone stole it from some rich guy’s office. 

"Hey, Boss." Thomas says, settling in a chair across the desk from him. He’s the more ruthless of the two, physically stocky like a pitbull with a wide face and a raspy, barking laugh that sounds mean even when it's not. But he's strategic in his violence, which Jason can appreciate.

Warren is lanky by comparison, with unkempt hair and a generally muted composure. He's eerily calm under high pressure, and his unassuming appearance has gotten him out of multiple police questionings. He’s also a snarky son of a bitch when he wants to be. "You're late," he says, still standing.

They can't see Jason’s face behind his helmet so he has project _who, me?_ with his body, leaning back in the chair with a hand splayed across his chest. "Don't tell me I'm keeping you from your loving family," Jason teases. "Guy like you? Bet your wife misses you something fierce."

"Whatever. Just get started."

There's something in his tone that's a little too sharp for Jason's liking, so Jason takes his time, faux-casually drawing out his right pistol to lay it on the desk in front of him. It's both a warning and a reminder of who he is. “Care to sit?” he asks. Warren sits. He can see Thomas suppress a grin, the corners of his mouth twitching twice.

They're both waiting for Jason to start talking logistics, so he does.

They're running point on an interception of a large shipment of firearms coming into Crime Alley, and they go over specifics about timing and support for the drop. How many men they need, where and how they plan on transporting the shipment, what information gaps they need to fill still and what kind of info they now have about the movements of the intended recipient: the Bertinelli crime family.

Thomas commands a lot of the muscle of his crew. The guys respect him, and Jason leaves it up to him to pick the specific people for a job—no one trigger happy, and no one queasy or panic prone when it does turn into a firefight.

Warren works as a car mechanic, which really means he runs a chop shop and has access to all sorts of vehicles as well as several large storage facilities. He's not Jason's only transportation guy, but his connections are useful for their upcoming job because it means less people are involved. The more people that are involved, the messier these things tend to get.  
  
Technically speaking, Red Hood runs the second largest crime ring in the city, right after the Bertinelli family. For having half the amount of guys, and none of the family ties to keep them loyal, Jason has done pretty well. They can't all be Italian mafia.

It would run a lot smoother if he hadn't just given himself such a massive handicap, which of course, is the whole _no killing_ thing. This particular limitation also means he has had to limit the scenarios in which his gang would kill, while not cluing them into the fact that they haven't had to kill anyone in a while. It's a delicate balance. He doesn't need anyone thinking he's gone soft, or worse, associating with the Bats.

Which is kind of the truth. He _is_ associating with the bats, but not because he agrees with the philosophy; he doesn't feel bad about anyone he's killed. Maybe he's desensitized, but they all deserved it. It's not like he just shoots out every unarmed, petty criminal stealing milk from a corner store. At least, not when he's in his right mind. And he is, now.

He can admit to himself, and only himself, that it was a bit overkill to behead people, and then bag and present said decapitated heads. But he doesn't feel bad about that either. It worked; Black Mask got the message. They were scum, selling drugs to children. He would kill them again. And who knows, maybe otherwise Black Mask would still be around instead of currently rotting in Blackgate Penitentiary. Jason would have killed the sadistic bastard as well, but Bruce was around by then and Jason didn't get to make that call.

So now Red Hood doesn't kill, just horrifically maims if the occasion calls for it. He still doesn't know if it's the right call, but Jason was getting tired of dodging bats while trying to actually do something to slow the rampant crime in Gotham. It was technically Batman who officially proposed the truce, and Jason who gave in into it. It was surprising, to see him compromise on anything really, but especially Jason's role in crime fighting given the amount of control Bruce has always demanded over him.

Maybe he saw that Jason's way of controlling drugs and firearms was actually curbing the horrible fallout of innocent people getting caught in the crossfire.

That was funny, like Bruce saw value in what he was doing.

Maybe he just agreed to whatever he thought would stop Jason from shooting-to-kill. Can't have his legacy tainted and all that.

Or maybe, years later, he finally decided to get protective of his kids and couldn't have the black sheep attacking his children. Who is he to begrudge Bruce’s new tender spot if it got Jason some leeway. He hasn’t gotten anything against the kids personally anyway; it's not like they were ever Jason's family.

Either way, the bats stay out of Crime Alley and out of his crime ring business. At least for now. He knows he’s pushing Bruce’s boundaries, and it probably won’t last. Especially not now that Dick won't be able to report back on him and say that he's got an eye on Jason.

He doesn't think any of his own guys have quite noticed yet that the bats have stopped hitting up Crime Alley. Or even that he's taking technically non-lethal shots. His knows a lot of his guys write off his nighttime patrol gig as a turf war against other crime rings. It's a delicate balance, both maintaining his image and keeping peace with the bats.

If things change, he'll deal with it. He can’t worry about it right now.

Warren is saying something about faulty electrical locks at the storage warehouse, the one they plan on using to temporarily house the shipment, when Jason's phone buzzes. He pulls it out without thinking, not planning on responding right then, assuming it's Roy telling him to pick up chili dogs for dinner or something.

It's Dick. The first line of text shows in the notification bar: _Hey I hope you're ok_.

He opens it then and there, can’t stop himself, but that's the whole message. Is this a pity text? If he thinks about it too much he knows he'll get angry again. He doesn't understand what Dick's playing at.

Before he can question it too much, he types back, _I'm Fine,_ then slips his phone back in his jacket pocket. It buzzes again several moments later but he ignores it.

He tells Warren that he'll check out the locks and security measures, and they wrap up. The drop is happening next Saturday, and today was Thursday, so that gave them a little over a week. Red Hood will be there too of course, providing most of the cover. He's not trying to provoke a full-blown firefight by bringing a battalion, and he has little tolerance for the kind of friendly fire that ends up happening in those situations.

Before he leaves, he tells them to be prepared for the timing to change last minute, _you know how these things go._ He nods to the guys milling about with their drinks downstairs, and then he's out the door and into the frigid air.

His phone is burning a hole in his pocket but he doesn't want to look. He doesn't need to be let down easy or whatever Dick's trying to do. Dick doesn't know that _Jason_ knows they're done, so of course Dick still would feel the need to tell Jason his reasons for why they can't hang out anymore, like he needs to be convinced.

Still, the idea of rejection still stupidly hurts. He's mildly frustrated with Dick. He could have just stopped talking to Jason. That's what he expected. He doesn't want to do whatever _this_ is. He gets it, he wouldn't want him either, and he doesn't need it explained.

He doesn't take his phone out. Instead, he drives a safe distance away and takes his helmet off, wanting to breathe in the crisp air without its filter. Even though the winter air is basically smog it helps clear his head.

—

He goes about his afternoon, checking out the locks at the warehouse, which seem physically intact. They're new and partially electromagnetic. He makes a note to ask Roy about the hack-ability of them. 

He checks up on some of the homeless people that have made their way into his information network, and some of who are just homeless. One man has some mild frostbite and he sends him to the clinic and tells him to ask for Leslie, who he knows will treat him.

He checks in on some of his guys at another auto repair shop, which is just that—not a front for something else. Jason pays off the owner of the business directly for transport, delivery, and storage services. His best driver, a twenty-two year old named Delilah, works there. She teases him about Valentine's Day coming up, which he forgot was a thing people do, and hands him a heart shaped chocolate that he puts in the pocket with his phone, for later.

On the way home he stops two muggings, because Gotham likes to play it fast and loose with mugging people in broad daylight.

He manages not to think about Dick until he parks in the alley next to Roy's walk-up. He sits there on his bike in the cold, debating with himself until he reluctantly pulls out his phone. He doesn't want to do this in front of Roy, whatever this is.

It's not a long text like he's expecting. Because of course Dick needs to play the gentleman and doesn’t do break up texts. It's just one question.

_Do you want to talk?_

His gut reaction answer is no, he doesn't. What really is there to talk about? He doesn't want to hear _out loud_ how fucking weird he was yesterday. Doesn't want to hear a consolidated list of reasons all while Dick tries to soften the rejection.

He doesn't know what he would say himself. _Hey, I'm sorry for the way I am? Whoops, turns out I don't actually want to have sex with you anymore? I can't give you what you want, so stop coming around?_ They all sound dramatic as hell to his own ears, and he wishes there was some kind of get out free button. He hopes that Dick can just drop it. 

He puts his phone away again, figuring no response is as good as a no.

—

The rest of his evening is spent sitting on Roy's couch, cleaning his guns on the coffee table while _Say Yes to the Dress_ plays on the tv. It's Roy's choice and it's really no good, but it makes Roy laugh occasionally and it has a repetitive quality that Jason doesn't mind too much. Besides, he's pretty sure Roy hid the remote on purpose and Jason doesn't care enough to find it right now, so the episodes just keep coming.

He doesn't think about how exactly a day ago he was in Dick's bed.

Roy is tinkering on something at the kitchen table, which is pushed right against the back of the couch so they can both face the TV. Out of nowhere Roy asks, "Is Grayson good?"

Jason pauses on cleaning his pistol because what.

"To you, I mean," he clarifies, then, "Do you need me to tell him to fuck off?"

"What?" Jason says out loud this time, a little alarmed. Knowing Roy, _telling Dick to fuck off_ will likely entail physical assault. "No, of course not," he reassures lest Roy take his bow out right then to track Dick down. "I mean, Dick is fine. I’m the one who royally fucked things up." He takes a second then adds, "It’s over now, anyways." Admitting it out loud is strange, somehow more final. He doesn’t tell him about Dick's texts. 

Roy hums, sounding thoughtful, and doesn’t respond for a long moment, probably fiddling some delicate piece of tech into place. Jason thinks that's that and turns back to his guns.

Then Roy says, "He was really freaking out when I came to get you."

Jason doesn't have a response to that. Anyone would freak out if someone turned into a vegetable mid sex.

"I just mean—," he continues, "I’m just saying that you could probably talk to him about it. About what you want to do. If you wanted. It's obviously your choice, but I wouldn't write Grayson off if I were you."

Even if there was a possibility, through some kind of miracle, that Dick wasn't actively trying to reject him, that would leave Jason with having to do the rejecting. He didn't want to be on either side of that conversation.

He doesn't know how to explain it to Roy. It’s simple in his own head. What he wants to do is not have that—yesterday—happen again. Ever. And Dick comes around because Dick wants to mess around. It was always going to lead to sex. Jason can’t have one and not the other. No sex means no Dick.

Trying to explain means explaining what happened, exactly, and no part of him wants to try to explain to Roy, or anyone, why he reacted that way. To put words to the way his brain decided that sex meant reliving fuzzy, painful memories. He doesn't want to _talk_ at all. 

Jason just mumbles something vague like "yeah" and Roy doesn't pry any more, even though Jason can tell he wants to. He goes back to cleaning his guns, though there isn't much to clean at this point.

After a while Roy cracks a joke about something on TV—a bridezilla marrying some kind of B-list celebrity—and it makes Jason snort. He hadn't noticed the tension in his chest until it suddenly eases and they settle back into a comfortable rhythm.

Jason goes out to patrol that night and stays clear of Nightwing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason still hasn't answered his text and the need to _fix this_ is driving Dick up the wall. After a sleepless night—it felt wrong to be anywhere near his bed after Jason left—Dick has been stuck suffering through a long day of paperwork at the police station, counting down the minutes until he can bust out and track down Jason. It's been hours since Dick has heard from him. He needs to see that he's ok. He said he was fine, but that could mean anything. Usually variations of _I'm not fine_. If it was a different day, Dick would assume it meant, "Go away, I'm dying." Jason has a terrible baseline for what constitutes as _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick's day, and some of Jason's week. Enjoy, my lovelies. 
> 
> For reference:  
> Dick is 22  
> Jason is 19  
> Tim is 17  
> Steph is 17  
> Cass is 16  
> Damian is 11

Jason still hasn't answered his text and the need to _fix this_ is driving Dick up the wall. After a sleepless night—it felt wrong to be anywhere near his bed after Jason left—Dick has been stuck suffering through a long day of paperwork at the police station, counting down the minutes until he can bust out and track down Jason. 

It's been hours since Dick has heard from him. He needs to see that he's ok. He said he was fine, but that could mean anything. Usually variations of _I'm not fine_. If it was a different day, Dick would assume it meant, "Go away, I'm dying." Jason has a terrible baseline for what constitutes as _fine_.

By the time his shift is up, Dick is brimming with pent up energy and has lost all patience, barely managing to keep his gait from being an all-out run as he skips the elevator in lieu of the stairs. He rushes past the other officers without acknowledging them; he doesn't have time for small talk today. He has a full-fledged plan of apology tacos with a brand-new apology pistol and some apology information about Jason's "business competition" that Dick's pulled together from several witness statements.

He can recognize that he may be pulling a classic Bruce by throwing money and gifts at bad feelings, if on a much smaller scale, but hopefully apology gifts plus actually talking about bad feelings will work in combination.

It doesn't hit him until he's halfway to the taco truck that Jason may be ignoring him on purpose. . . which would mean that Jason doesn't want to see him today. 

The realization feels like an anvil dropping through the bubble that was his plan. He hasn't thought this through enough, despite it being all he's thought about. 

If it was someone else, like Bruce or Tim, he would ignore a non-answer and show up anyway because letting bad feelings stew is a terrible method for dealing with anything and Dick knows he can bully them into some therapeutic chit-chat. But it's not someone else. Forcing Jason to do something he doesn't want to do is just going to end in Jason shutting him out.

The burning need to tell Jason he's sorry has been the driving him forward, but he can see that's more about his own guilt. He gets that Jason might not be ready to talk to him, let alone forgive him, the day after Dick basically triggered some type of dissociation. He doesn't blame him. Dick showing up unannounced might be the last thing Jason needs right now.

He doesn't know _what_ Jason needs though, because _he hasn't answered his text_.

Dick realizes his feet have carried him to the taco truck, and he only orders for himself; he hasn't eaten anything today and knows he should. He sits down on a bench and mechanically chews through his food. The sun is out today, bright in the late afternoon, and it staves off the cold by a few degrees. He checks his phone: still no response. 

Maybe he should try calling him. He can leave an apology voicemail, as inadequate as that is. But if Jason is ignoring his text, calling won't be welcome. He could try another text, something that's less of an open-ended question. He even types out, _You don't have to forgive me, just know I'm sorry and I'm ready to talk whenever you are._

He doesn't send it. The first part feels manipulative to him for some reason, like saying " _you don't need to forgive me"_ is actually a self-righteous _"you should forgive me_." 

Dick does want that, eventually, but not because he's backed Jason into a corner. He doesn't want to make his own need for redemption Jason's problem. Because it's not. Jason has to already know that he's sorry, and when they talk he'll make sure of it. But he doesn't know when that will be. He doesn't know _what else to do._

He's going to go mad with thinking in circles.

He ends up texting Roy, even though he knows it's a bad idea and definitely feels like crossing a boundary.

_Hey Jason isn't answering me, which is fine, but I'd like to know that he's ok if you can say._

He sends it before he can think too much about it. Roy is one of the few people who's there for Jason and he feels bad that he's asking Roy to talk about Jason behind his back.

He's not expecting an immediate response, so he starts the trek home. It's only a ten-minute walk but it feels like an hour today.

His apartment is dark and quiet and empty. He doesn't want to be there. The second the thought crosses his mind, it coagulates into a statement: he's not staying here tonight. He has somewhere to go.

He changes out of his uniform. Then he grabs a duffel, throws some clothes in it, snatches his keys from the counter, and drives to Wayne manor.

It's times like this he's glad he hasn't moved to Blüdhaven.

The manor is in its usual chaos when he arrives; music is playing, drifting throughout the main floor from the large den where he can hear Tim and Steph's laughter, and it smells like someone is cooking garlic. Titus is barking excitably upstairs somewhere, and Damian's door must be open because Dick can hear the derisive tone in his voice, even though he can't make out the words over the music. That must means Bruce is upstairs too. He lets himself stand there for a second as an unseen specter, letting the noise of his family wash away his day.

He drop his duffel at the bottom of the stairs and finds Alfred in the kitchen with several pots on the stove and what looks like a variety of snacks laid out neatly across the granite island counter-top.

It's been a few weeks since Dick saw him last, so he makes sure to infuse some chipperness into his voice when he puts on an uppity accent and calls, “Hey there, old sport."

Alfred turns, looking a little surprised to see him, but happy about it. "Master Richard. Welcome home, I was not told to expect you for dinner."

Dick drops the accent and says, "Yeah, sorry. I didn't tell anyone I was coming over tonight." He pulls out a stool at the island and sits, perched on its edge. "I already ate so don't change anything on my account."

Alfred almost rolls his eyes at him. _Almost_. He totally would have if he weren't the most well-mannered person in America.

"Never apologize for coming home," he says, taking a large chef’s knife out of the knife block and handing it to Dick. Then he drags out a large cutting board from a bottom cupboard and sets it in front of Dick along with some peppers and several onions. "How about we prepare a little more just in case. Master Timothy has mistaken coffee as a meal too many days this week and could use the additional calories."

"You're the boss, Alfie." He starts in on an onion. "How do you want these—"

"Diced, if you will."

Alfred turns back to the stove to turn the flames down and Dick can see him in profile mouthing o _ld sport_ and _Alfie_ with a head shake. It makes him smile for the first time that day.

The snacks, turns out, are for Bruce and Damian, who Alfred informs him are going to China on a business trip for the better part of the next two weeks. Alfred tells him with a conspiratorial wink that Bruce and Damian are both much less grumpy when fed and that Damian is tagging along for a much-deserved vacation and some one-on-one time with his father outside of their nightly activities. Dick suspects Damian is not incredibly happy about this arrangement.

Alfred also says that they have decided to pack themselves, which of course means it’s happening the night before departure. He says it with an air of hands-off nonchalance that translates directly to, "I told them to do this much earlier and they'll pack what they pack."

Cass comes drifting in at some point with a book under her arm and curls up at the breakfast nook, listening to Alfred's version of gossip and occasionally making a short comment. Alfred is good at engaging her in conversation, filling in the gaps and keeping the flow going. Dick usually is as well, but his conversationalist-self feels a bit dampened today. He chops the vegetables.

Dick's phone buzzes and he has it out and unlocked in less than a second.

It's Roy. There are three messages:

_J is fine. When he wants to talk to you is up to him._

_I don't know what exactly happened, I'm not asking, but from what I've picked up I don't think it was either of your faults._

_Don't make this a habit. I won't do this again._

He puts his phone away and looks for the knife he discarded. He goes back to chopping.

Jason is fine. That word again: _fine_. It means more from Roy. Not much, but some. He feels something like relief.

Roy's also wrong though. Dick was there and he definitely was at fault. Roy must have thought so at the time as well, or he wouldn't have rejected Dick's offer of clothing for Jason.

In hindsight, Dick understands why Roy gave Jason his sweatpants; he didn’t want Jason to be indebted to Dick right after Dick hurt him. He made sure Jason didn't have any obligations to return. For Jason's sake he's thankful for Roy's foresight. He's a good friend to have in his corner.

But, there's nothing in Roy's texts that points to something Dick can do to fix things. It sounds like he's saying he should wait, which means _do nothing_ for _who knows how long_. He doesn't know if he can do that. 

Dick is on the third onion when Bruce walks in and says, "Damian is demanding that the dog comes with. I said no."

Alfred doesn't turn around from the stove, just says, "I have complete confidence in your parenting abilities, Master Bruce."

This earns a single huffed laugh from Dick, barely a snort.

"Dick," Bruce says, like he just noticed him there for the first time. "Hi. How are you?"

Dick opens his mouth to try and downplay his presence, maybe crack a joke at Bruce's parenting or his small-talk greeting, but Cass pipes up with a soft-spoken, "He is sad."

"It's the onion, Cass," he assures her. "I'm fine, it just makes my eyes water."

"No." She says, like she's telling him Bruce is rich; an uncontended fact. "Your body. You are sad."

The way she says it give him pause, which is when he notices the ache in his chest and heaviness in his gut, and knows she's not wrong. He's ruined things with Jason and he can't do anything about it right now. The onions _are_ irritating his eyes, but he can now recognize the different sort of pain in the space behind his eyes, the kind caused from stress and emotion. It's not enough to make him cry, especially not in front of Bruce, but now that Cass has called attention to it he can feel it creeping forward, less contained.

"Dick?" That's Bruce.

He's paused with the knife too long, and too much time has passed to lightly dismiss or redirect Cass's observation. And he's been staring at the onions like they might have answers. He sighs. He came here to get away from this feeling.

He can feel Bruce scrutinizing him, and then Bruce goes and says, very measured, "Did something happen with Jason?"

It makes Dick freeze up because hell. He doesn't know how Bruce does that except Bruce is apparently the _world's greatest detective_ and it fucking sucks. He's very serious. To Dick's ears it sounds like a demand: _What did you do_.

Dick can't remember any words.

Alfred has also gone still. He turns off all the burners and says, "Miss Cassandra, let's go check on Master Damian's progress with packing." Cass looks a little confused but nods and they both leave the kitchen and then it’s just him and Bruce and the vegetables. He doesn't want to look at Bruce. 

"Dick, put down the knife and talk to me."

Of course _now_ is when Bruce sees the value in talking. He can't get his hand to release his grip on the knife, but he blurts out, "I've been seeing him." This is a terrible idea but he's already doing it so he adds, "Romantically."

All the bats know Dick sometimes has contact with Jason, definitely more than anyone else—who basically have no contact—but they don't ask. It's one of those things. Like if they acknowledge Jason's regular connection with someone in their family, it'll disappear. He doesn't think any of them know the nature and extent of their relationship. Except Bruce. Now. Because he told him.

He wasn't expecting Bruce to be the first to know, and definitely not by his own mouth.

There's a very long silence and he considers making a break for his car. But he's already opened his fat mouth and if he's about to get yelled at it's really less than he deserves. He finally risks a look up at Bruce, who's looking back at Dick like he's mulling over this new piece of information. Dick is terrified about what's going to come out of Bruce's mouth, which ends up being, "I think I should be more surprised."

Dick stares at him, incredulous. "You’re fine with it?"

He was expecting disbelief. Maybe anger.

Bruce leans back against the wall with his arms crossed, settling in for this conversation, and lets out a long exhale. "I. . . didn’t say that". He talks slowly, like he's choosing his words carefully. "It certainly makes things more complicated. Unstable. Which is the last thing I really want when it comes to Jason." Another exhale. "I know you two were never really brothers. But both of you are my sons, and you have to understand that I can’t allow him to disappear again. I won’t. If something happens between you guys, if you break up—"

"Something did happen." He interrupts. Then all in a rush, "I did something and I don’t know how to fix it."

Bruce doesn't ask what he did, just asks, "Is he ok?"

"I think so."

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, but—I mean—he won't talk to me right now."

Bruce rubs a hand down his face. He looks as tired and frustrated as Dick feels.

"We can't lose him. He's barely agreed to play by the basic rules and we're not going to let this be the thing that sets him off. We _need_ to fix this."

"I don't know how to!" He already _knows_ he needs to fix this, and he doesn't need Bruce to tell him. He's suddenly conscious that there's people in the house, and they are both being too loud for this kind of conversation. He lowers his volume to repeat, "I don't know _how_ , Bruce." It comes out more helpless sounding than he intended. He can feel the threat of tears glazing his vision as he stares at the back of his hands on top of the counter. At some point he let go of the knife.

There's another long exhale from Bruce, then he asks, "Is it the silent treatment, or did he say he didn't want to talk to you?"

"Silent treatment."

"Okay," he says, like that's decided something. "Here's what you're going to do." Dick looks up at Bruce again and he's not leaning on the wall anymore; he's standing tall and straight, hands clasped together at his waist. He waits for Dick to meet his gaze. "You're going to give him space for a week, and then you're going to try again."

"What if he still doesn't want to talk?" Dick finally voices what he's been worried about. What if Jason never wants to talk again. What if he doesn't see the value of having any sort of relationship with any of them now. What if that means he’s going to cut off his deal with Bruce.

He knows Bruce has similar thoughts.

"We'll talk about it again if, or when, that happens."

It's not a perfect plan, being as how the plan is to do nothing for a week, but Dicks says, "Okay."

It seems like an arbitrary time limit, but having a deadline will stop Dick from calling Jason twenty times a day. Or texting him. Or cornering him in an alley. Dick really screwed up and if Jason needs a few days without him then that's understandable. He'll respect his boundaries.

He'll give Jason what he needs: space. Then he'll give Jason what he owes him: the biggest apology there ever was.

He'll have break it to Jason that he's told Bruce, too. Which he's not excited for. But he can't bring himself to feel anything but relief at the moment. He's not alone in this. He's not the only one who cares.

"Dick," Bruce says, getting his attention. "Jason's been through a lot. More than you probably know. He needs his family. He needs _people_. I know it’s not fair to ask, but you're in the best position to be there for him." He pauses, choosing his words carefully again. "And, your relationship is. . . not ideal right now. But, I want you to know that I can also see the potential for you two make each other happy."

Dick doesn't know what to say to that, a frequently increasing experience for him. He doesn't like it, because what ends up slipping out is a nonsensical: "He makes me happy."

There must be something on his face or in his tone that makes Bruce cross the distance between to squeeze Dick's shoulder. "You’re both going to be fine," he says.

The word echoes in his head. _Fine. Fine. Fine._

"Why don't you go get settled in. We can let Alfred have his kitchen back."

Dick sees it for what it is: an offer of escape. He's giving him an out before everyone comes in for dinner and he has to pretend to be normal Happy-Dick. He could do it, but it's probably not worth the energy right now.

"Yeah. Okay." He scoots his island stool back and stands, and Bruce pulls him in for a short, tight hug. It's unexpected, but nice.

He leaves the kitchen just as Alfred is rounding the stairway banister, presumably heading back to where Dick just left. He always has impeccable timing. Alfred takes one look at him and pulls him in for a hug too.

He must look like shit. He escapes to his room before he can run into anyone else. Alfred has already brought up his duffel and placed it on the bench at the foot of his bed.

Dick showers. He doesn't need to, but it'll keep anyone else from asking why he's not coming down for dinner right then. The water is warm, and it feels nice on his bare skin. He stands under the water and tries not to wonders what he'll do if Jason never talks to him.

Instead, Dick turns his thoughts to the things he needs to say _when_ , not if, they talk. It might not be an entire week, and he needs to know what he's going to say if Jason calls tonight or tomorrow or in five minutes.

He needs to apologize properly. Then he needs to make sure Jason knows they can do whatever type of sex Jason is comfortable with. Jason can fuck _him_ if he wants. They don't even have to have sex at all, Dick doesn't really care. He’ll have whatever Jason wants to give him. It's not like he was always conniving to get into Jason's pants. That’s not why he hangs around Jason.

At first, admittedly, he hung around because he was curious about him. About what his deal was, if he was sociopathic or something. It was also cautionary; things were escalating with Bruce at the time—Jason had lashed out at Tim—and Dick started to follow Jason to take down his targets non-lethally before he could shoot them in the head. Which didn't happen as often as he was expecting. He wasn't expecting Jason to be so _with it_. Calculating and decisive about the things he did and people who got the worst of it.

Admittedly this was after the Pit stuff calmed down, which Dick was away on a mission for most of.

Jason was still frustrated that Dick was getting involved at all. There were a lot of insults, and a whole lot of snark. They developed a simmering power struggle that stayed in the realm of banter until it turned physical in an alley one night. That wasn't even sex, just rough grasps and a kiss that tasted like challenge. It wasn't drawn out. Dick had broke off and asked if Jason wanted some street food and he said yes.

That was a turning point. Dick would show up with food and Jason insults weren't hostile like they were before. They were even playful.

At first, Dick hadn't liked that Jason shot-to-kill, especially given that he was a cop. But he did what he could to counter it and could at least appreciate it's containment. Bruce reached out to Jason not long after they started meeting up anyway, so it became a moot point.

Dick also hadn't loved how unflinchingly violent Jason could be towards people, but he wasn't in a place to pass judgement. A few weeks prior to Bruce and Jason's deal, Dick had accidentally broken someone's scapula with an escrima stick. The guy probably needed to have surgery.

If Jason was surprised by Dick's silence on the matter, he didn't show it. 

Dick would let Jason be, and Jason didn't ask him to approve. They understood each other. 

Curiosity and caution became interest, because Jason was interesting. He was funny, and prickly, and Dick liked teasing him. He gave as good as he got. Patrol become fun. Dick would stop a robbery, Jason would take down mobsters, and then they'd make out at the docks. Or a rooftop. Or later, in Dick's living room.

Dick turns the water off in the shower and gets out. The hot water doesn't run out here, but he's been in it so long his skin is pruning. He gets dressed and checks his phone: no messages from Jason. 

Dick also hasn't told Jason that he cares about him. He needs to.

He could generalize and say that it's because it's hard to find someone with shared life experience. Especially that lives on this planet and in this city. But really it's because of his Jason-ness.

Jason calls him on his bullshit. Dick doesn't have to be a chameleon around him. Or rather, he can be Dick Grayson and Nightwing and all the versions of himself in between. Jason may be harsh, but it's to fight harshness. At his core he cares so damn much about Gotham and the people who are affected by its rampant crime sprees. Jason believes in what he does, and damn if that isn't _attractive_.

Even if Dick is supposed to be fundamentally opposed to what Jason does.

He can admit to himself that he doesn't really care. Jason's not actively killing anyone, and Dick has seen the crime stats himself from Crime Alley. They've plateaued for the first time in years.

Dick opens his door so he can hear the sound of chatter downstairs. He doesn't join them, but it's still better than being in his apartment by himself.

When 10 o'clock rolls around, he dons his Nightwing suit and sneaks down to Batcave before anyone else. There's a large map of Gotham City taped up on a glass panel that comes up out of the ground, over by where the suits are stored. That's new. Dick has seen Bruce use the panel as a white board sometimes when he's trying to puzzle something out. He can see that the map has Jason's borough outlined in red, down to the street.

It’s a reminder to everyone of what's off-limits before they patrol.

It's odd to see it laid out.

They call Jason's territory "Crime Alley", because that's where Crime Alley is, but really it's the greater borough that spans about a third of downtown Gotham. Batman has agreed that he won't encroach on it, but that doesn't mean Jason stays strictly within his own territory. He's up against mobsters and mafia and gangs that don't limit their activity to their geographical standard.

So Jason can leave Crime Alley, but Batman and Associates can't go in. He's heard Tim and Damian complain about it over the comms many times in the last month, to Dick's amusement. 

Looking at the map now, Dick realizes that he also hasn't been in Crime Alley in a while. Not now that he doesn't follow Jason, and not at all since Bruce and Jason's deal, though it was never an intentional decision. For some reason, he hadn't thought of the deal as applying to himself, but now he wonders if he was any more welcome than the others.

Dick honestly hadn't thought about it until now. He always starts in his own borough, then goes wherever he's needed. Wherever Barbara sends him. Sometimes Dick will come across Jason in the middle of a fight. Or one of them will send a text and they meet somewhere. Or Jason will come over. But it's never been in Crime Alley. He wonders if that's been Jason's doing. 

He pushes the thought away. It'll be _fine_. He has a week. Then they'll talk.

He borrows a Batcycle. They have, like, five. He has his own version near his apartment, but he normally just climbs his own building and he's ready to go, preferring to travel by rooftop and grappling hook. It's been a while since he's had to drive to Gotham first.

He gives Crime Alley and the surrounding area a wide berth. He still sees Jason briefly, jumping off a roof in the distance. He doesn't follow.

It's not a very eventful night. It's cold and Barbara only chimes in a few times to direct him. There are a few muggings. A would-be rapist meets Dick's fist in the park, and he tells Barbara who sends Steph to escort the woman home. He stops some car hijackers. He strips some firearms off of a few drunk teenagers and throws them into the river. The guns, not the teenagers. Then he feels bad for littering, but the water is too murky to see where they've gone. Fishing them out is impossible at that point, but he takes his phone out to go online and makes a donation to an anti-pollution cleanup organization. 

He realizes that for the second time that day he's decided to throw money at a problem he created. He should be thinking more _before_ he’s part of a problem.

The night is slow. There's always _something_ to do, but the entire Rouges Gallery is locked up or in Arkham at the moment so there's less. Dick would welcome the distraction of any one of them right now. Tim is in the financial district, investigating something about security breaches. Bruce and Damian only come out for a few hours. Cass and Steph both seem to enjoy the reprieve, in their own ways. Steph is chatty. Cass indulges Steph’s chattiness.

No one comments on Dick’s quiet mood, at least not on main comms. 

Dick heads back to the Batcave before anyone else, changes, and goes to sleep.

Bruce knocks on his door early in the morning. It's early enough that Dick's still in bed, a few hours before his shift at work.

Bruce opens the door to poke his head through and says, "I'm headed out." Then instead of heading out, he slips in his room and shuts the door. Dick props himself up on an elbow, not knowing what Bruce is about to say. The room is dark, the sky outside his window a dark blue from the sun barely beginning to rise.

"I talked to Barbara briefly about keeping an eye on Jason. I haven't told her why, but I made sure she understood that it wasn't out of current suspicion of foul play."

Dick's pretty sure that Barbara already keeps an eye on him—especially after what happened with Tim—but he understands the caution. If they assume Dick has been functioning as overseer, which he hasn't meant to be, then technically there needs to be replacement oversight.

It's too early for him to think through the caveats of that. But, in general, having eyes on Jason is probably a good idea.

Dick nods to indicate he's heard him and doesn't disagree outright with his route of approach.

"If I need to end my trip early, I will," Bruce continues. "I'll have my phone on me. Otherwise, I'll be back in ten days."

He doesn't need to say why he'd come back early. They both know it'd because Jason broke his part of the deal. Dick nods again.

Then Bruce is gone, and Dick is awake now.

He checks his phone. No message from Jason.

It's going to be a long week.

—

Jason crashes at Roy's for a few nights in a row after. . . well, after.

That first night, after patrol, he does at least try to sleep in a safe house, because Roy deserves a break after dealing with Jason's. . . just Jason in general. He ends up back at Roy's not even two hours later after waking up in a panicked haze from a forgotten dream. He smokes until he feels calm—nearly half a pack—then climbs through Roy's living room window and spends the rest of the early morning sitting on the couch, halfheartedly browsing on his phone for safe house real estate and watching the shifting shadows that he _knows_ are nothing.

The following day is generally shitty, but it's fine. They all have nights where they don't sleep. It's practically part of the job. He’ll sleep that night and bounce back, like always.

-

The dreams are worse the second night. More vivid. He’s standing alone in a place that's not a place, just a sense of nothingness around him. It's not scary, just _is_. There's something in the back of his throat and he gags a little on what feels like a long piece of hair, tangled up on his tongue. He reaches in with his fingers to pull it out but it's longer that he thought and he pulls it and can feel it coming up along the inside of his throat and he pulls it and it just keeps coming, thicker and thicker like black vines spilling out of his throat and between his lips and he's frantically pulling it up out of him hand over hand and he's panicking because it's not stopping and he's suffocating and it's inside him and he can't _breathe_ and he knows he's dying.

He's abruptly awake in the semi-darkness of Roy's living room.

Roy had left a small light on in kitchen for when Jason got in, one of those battery operated circular click-lights that adheres to the underside of the cabinet. It's still on, glowing softly. Jason lays there, heart pounding with a now too-familiar beat, and lets the small light illuminate what it can.

By midday he's back at Roy's with a stabbing headache behind both eyes. He takes six Tylenol and sticks his head in the freezer for a few minutes, leaving the door open until the light inside it times out and turns off. Roy walks in the front door right then and doesn't comment on it, just pulls him out of the freezer and sits him on his couch, then hands him a glass of water and a towel-wrapped ice pack. He loves Roy.

By evening, his body is shaking, slight tremors that he knows mean exhaustion.

He still goes out to patrol.

He dutifully avoids Nightwing.

-

The third night is somehow worse. He's asleep and everything is white—bright and wrong. The smooth white ground stretches in every direction; the white sky wraps around the space tightly like a smooth circular wall pressing in, making the space feel flat and endless. Where the sky meets the ground is a barely discernible horizon in the far distance. He's alone. In front of him on the ground is a large bucket that's full to the brim with white paint.

It’s silent and still, then there’s sudden movement in of the corner of his eye, something in the distance, and he snaps his head towards it but he can only catch the figure in his peripheries; he knows without knowing how that it's a man. Jason hold's himself perfectly still, tense, waiting for something terrible. _There_ , the man moves and he sees it in the corner of his other eye, closer to him, and he whips around but there's no one there no matter which way he turns. In that glimpse he thought he saw the man had something wrapped around his face, like white gauze, but not.

There's no one there; it's just white white white.

Then there's hot breath on his neck and arms pulling him back against the man's body and strips of white cloth are being rapidly wound around his head and face and he's clawing at it but it's not doing anything to stop it and he's being shoved forward to catch himself on his hands and knees, and there's just enough time to remember the bucket when the man forces his head into the paint—the _plaster_ —and it seeps right through the gauze into his nose and mouth and he's choking and he's shoving at the bucket and shoving at the man and neither budge an inch, and the plaster is cold and he's drowning and-and-and.

And that's when the man yanks at Jason's pants and he understands it as the first thing that makes sense here. The plastered man drowns Jason in white while he shoves in and takes.

It's not panic this time, though he registers it should be. Instead he wakes heavy and disoriented, mentally clawing his way through to what's real, trying to shake off the feeling of dread that lingers on his skin when he realizes he's on Roy's couch. He can feel the worn cushions beneath him but they still somehow feel far away.

He pulls his gun off the coffee table and into his hand because the cold weight always feels real, but his hands feel miles away too. He feels floaty, like his head might pop off and just drift away. He thinks the numbness might be worse than panic, and at that moment he blithely misses the days of blind rage.

He's so tired, like the inside of him has already died and just waiting for his body to catch up. He doesn't have the energy to move, but he's starts to shiver and realizes he's drenched in sweat. The couch is damp from it.

He levers himself up before he can pass out in it despite himself. He strips down to his boxers right there in the living room and makes his way to the bathroom to quietly try and wipe the sweat away with a warm washcloth. A shower would be better, but he doesn't want to wake Roy.

Which of course means Roy is already awake and in the kitchen getting water when Jason comes out. He hands the water to Jason and says, "Drink." He does. Then Roy hands him a literal shot glass full of NyQuil and says, "Drink." He does. Roy holds his hand out for it back.

Jason wants to ask why Roy keeps a shot glass. And also a large bottle of liquid NyQuil. He says nothing instead. Roy pours another shot of NyQuil and hands it back to Jason. He downs it in one swallow without being told. They repeat this a third time.

Roy waits for Jason to refill his water glass and drink its contents before steering him into his own bedroom. Roy flips the covers back on the opposite side and says, "Lay down."

"Harper. . ." He can’t keep giving him his bed.

"Todd." He mimics. "I'm serious. You need to sleep. It's big enough for the two of us and I promise not to touch you. Now, lay down."

Jason lays down.

Roy turns off the lamp by his side of the bed, letting darkness settle over them. Then there's just the sound of their breathing and the hum of late night traffic outside.

Jason sleeps.

He immediately falls back into a dream. He's walking down an endless spiral staircase made of concrete, walled in on both sides and above. He's alone, but not. His mom is somewhere ahead—below—unseen. There's a man following them, behind and above, too far back to be in view. It's like a game. They'll all meet at the bottom.

He takes the circling steps down, down, down, until he's too dizzy to walk and has to sit down on one of the wide, concrete steps. The cold seeps through his pants while the steady footsteps of the man echo down towards him, getting closer until they're practically on top of him. They stop. He can see the man's legs out of the corner of his right eye; he's standing on the stair above where Jason's sitting. Jason can feel the man staring down at him. He looks over at the man's shoes and feels ice trickle through his veins, rising terror threatening to choke him when he realizes this is not a game at all. He's frozen, dread filling him slowly and completely until he can't breathe, paralyzed. He's scared to look but he _has_ to. He tries to, but his head is too heavy, limbs sudden anchors that weigh him down into the concrete as he's smothered by something unseen. He's dying and the man stares down at him, patient. His last thought is wild and absurd: of course death wears clown shoes.

Jason jerks awake and Roy is there. He's fine. Jason's fine. He's also inexplicably groggy and it's still dark and sleep rises up to take him again before he can think anything else.

The dreams are waiting for him every time he drops into sleep, and every time he jerks awake, Roy is there.

In the morning they sit at the table with the cereal and Roy says, "Dude, I think your body is scared of sleep."

Jason is still exhausted and he's having a hard time thinking straight, like there's a cloud living in his head behind his eyes, but what he says is, "I can still shoot fine."

Roy's not having it. He makes Jason stay home as a "rest day" and Jason really is too tired to fight it. Roy sits at the table for most of the day, sleeves rolled up, deep in his project, little bits of wire and metal all over the kitchen. Jason lays on his couch, sandwiched between two blankets, and manages to doze a few times without having any nightmares.

Which, if he thinks about it, is absolutely pathetic. He's having honest-to-God nightmares, like he's approximately seven. He doesn't understand why they're only happening _now_. He fucking died and woke up in a coffin and didn't lose sleep over it. Not that he can remember anyways.

At least Dick hasn't featured in any of them.

-

It doesn't get better but it doesn't get worse. At least, not really. He can't sleep more than an hour without waking with adrenaline-fueled panic or confusion, reaching for his gun before he's fully awake.

The floaty feeling comes and goes. He knows he's having a hard time tracking so he keeps what conversation he has to have blunt and short, and he's extra careful around Roy to pay attention when Roy's talking so he can offer up a normal answer. Thank God he's not talkative at the best of times or else his jilted responses might be a lot more noticeable. If he thought Roy would leave it alone, he'd avoid him altogether until this passed. It has to pass eventually.

Still, he cuts down on his daylight hours to compensate. He has a well-oiled operation and it'll be fine with a little less oversight for a few days.

Red Hood still patrols every night, doesn't have the luxury not to. One night, he tails one of the Bertenelli sons and catches a one-sided conversation between him and their supplier, which is how he finds out the firearms shipment has already been pushed back at least a day. He doesn't know if that bodes as good news or bad, what with his current sleepless condition.

The point is, he's managing it.

Five days after he leaves Dick's text unanswered, Kori calls; she needs Roy for a mission off-planet.

Roy doesn't want to go and Jason knows it's because of him. They argue about it, but they both know Roy needs to go. Roy wants Jason to come with, says he can take a break and sleep in whatever spaceship Kori has scrounged up. Jason tells him he can't; he has a that shipment to intercept in four—no, now five—days. And, he has Crime Alley. The bats may share Gotham but Crime Alley just has him.

Jason wins on the condition that he has to text Alfred if it gets worse. He makes Jason swear to it. He promises, though he knows he'll only use Alfred as a last resort.

Jason misses Alfred fiercely, but he can't exactly swing by Wayne manor, not without starting a whole thing with Bruce. Since he came back, Alfred sends him texts occasionally—usually just those mass chain holiday texts that old people like to send, because Alfred is undemanding and cheeky and knows Jason thinks they're funny—but Alfred isn't exactly going to scale buildings to see him. Jason can't picture him in Roy's apartment, let alone a safe house. He doesn't physically belong in this world and Jason's not going to be the one to drag him into it unless he's literally dying.

Things move pretty quick after that. Roy has a few hours to pack and prep, and Jason helps him take stock of his gear and pack up whatever the his tech project is. He's not taking it with him, so it gets boxed up for when he gets back. They both know Jason is going to clear the apartment if Roy's gone more than a couple weeks. It's hard to tell how long an off-planet mission will go, and it's about time Roy's moved anyway, security-wise.

Before Roy leaves he hands Jason a pile of pamphlets. Jason flips through one and there's entire sections highlighted. _Chronic stress management. Self Care. PTSD_. It folds out huge, like a map. And there's a whole handful of them. He's pretty sure one pamphlet is the twelve steps. Roy is talking. Jason forces himself to pay attention. His head hurts.

"So, um, I know you don't need addiction recovery stuff, but brain shit is brain shit." Roy takes a deep breath and continues. "And, I know you don't want to talk about it, but some of that could help with whatever is going on."

He knows Roy doesn’t like to talk about his stuff either, so he recognizes the fact that he's literally bringing out the literature for him. It's a big deal for Roy. And, he spent time highlighting things he thought would be helpful for Jason.

It's. . . a lot to try to process with his cloud brain. He tries to make sure it sounds like he means it when he says, "Thanks, Harper. Seriously."

He just claps him on the shoulder and says, "Of course. Now don't die while I'm gone, ok? And for God's sake, get some sleep. You look like something a ghost shat out."

That makes Jason smile weakly. "I don't accept insults from soulless gingers."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so funny." Roy gives him hug and then he's gone, out the door, off to be beamed up or however Kori is picking him up.

Jason is tired. He doesn't sleep.

Instead, he puts on a crappy Roy-show and slowly reads through the pamphlets. It's difficult to concentrate through the brain fog and he starts to feel unbearably fuzzy after thirty minutes.

Red Hood doesn't patrol that night. The temperature is supposed to dip below zero and he knows that the amount of crime occurring at that temperature is low. No one wants to freeze to death.

He doesn't realize he's asleep at first because he dreams that he's waking up, laying exactly where he is on Roy's couch, surrounded by pamphlets. It's dark, and he's highly alert, straining his eyes and ears for movement. Dream-him belatedly recognizes the sound that woke him as the click of a door opening quietly. There's the _shh_ of a window sliding and movement in darkest shadow in the corner and he grabs for his gun and—

He startles awake from the sound of his own gunshot rapid firing four rounds into the wall that separates the living room from Roy's room.

He puts the safety on the gun and drops it on the table like it's burned him. The tv is still playing on low, but otherwise the apartment is dark like his dream. His deadbeat brain is trying to catch up with the rush of adrenaline, leaving him both dazed and physically shaking. What the hell is wrong with him. He hopes he's really awake.

The next thought is, _thank God Roy isn't home_. His breath catches a little when he realizes he could have accidentally shot Roy through the wall because of a goddamn dream.

He doesn't want to look where the bullets ended up, whether they were anywhere near Roy's bed. He could have accidentally _killed_ him. Could have shot him in his sleep. 

Then Roy would be dead and Bruce would come for Jason and _he'd fucking let him_.

He's shaking, doesn't know if it's fear or anger or what, but he can't stop it. One of the pamphlets had said how to breathe through panic and he figures this is close enough. He tries to follow it, breathing in and holding it before trying to exhale slowly. He can't tell if it's helping; it makes him feel angry and stupid.

He doesn't need breathing exercises. What he _needs_ is to sleep. What he _needs_ is to stop fucking dreaming. This last one was so sensory that he wonders if wasn't a dream so much as a hallucination. Which. . . is a big fucking problem. He can't start hallucinating when he's out shooting the bad guys.

He can't believe what a few nights of bad sleep has done to him. It's ridiculous. He's used to keeping crazy hours and he should be better than this. This shouldn't be fucking happening because of one little flashback and some missed sleep.

Of course, that's when he remembers that sleep deprivation is a form of torture. A really _effective_ form of torture. Sleep deprivation can create a mental state that mimics psychosis.

It's a real _well_ - _fuck-me_ moment. Jason really needs to get this under control before it gets out of his depth.

He starts googling shit, but's it's not helpful. A lot of it says to go to therapy, like it’s a simple fix. He imagines himself going to sit in some office to talk, but he doesn't know what he'd talk about; half of Jason's life is a secret, and that's not just the vigilante part. How is he supposed to explain the pit and Talia and the Joker and Bruce. Or better yet, all the fun times he had as a kid and the whole Dick fiasco last week. He hates everything about this idea.

Hell, he’d have to get better identification. Maybe insurance. He'd have to officialize his aliveness with all the paperwork. He doesn't know why he's even thinking about this. The whole thing feels elusive, and that's driven home when he realizes that he's been picturing himself wearing the helmet, lounging on one of those long therapy chairs.

Maybe he can try to drink tea before bed. Maybe try something stronger than NyQuil. Maybe he just has to wait a bit longer and his brain will stop doing this. He'll get the sleep thing under control and he’ll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knows there's gotta be typos but I'll have to look for them later. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :) 
> 
> I eat comments for breakfast and they are my fuel-fire.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows he's not technically supposed to be here. 
> 
> Or rather, _Red Robin_ isn’t supposed to be here. _Crime Alley is off limits_ —it's only been drilled into them a couple hundred times. Bruce polices them like he's orchestrating the Cold War. Like it's some nuclear standoff and he's trying to get the other side to disarm even when everyone knows it's not going happen.
> 
> (Enter Tim)

Tim knows he's not technically supposed to be here.

Or rather, _Red Robin_ isn’t supposed to be here. _Crime Alley is off limits_ —it's only been drilled into them a couple hundred times. Bruce polices them like he's orchestrating the Cold War. Like it's some nuclear standoff and he's trying to get the other side to disarm even when everyone knows it's not going happen.

He's especially watchful of Tim, constantly checking in with him about his location every night and reminding him to keep out. Tim's got college class three times a week a few blocks over so he can technically visit as a civilian, with Bruce's stipulation of _keep your head down, no detective work._ It's a pain in his ass.

He's towed the line so far, even though it's still a stupid rule that's he's been tempted to break as many times as he's heard it repeated. He's got a growing pile of cases he can't follow leads on because they lead back to Crime Alley and he's just told to _let it go_. Like every added case isn't infuriating.

He knows it sounds petulant, and that's exactly why he doesn't say it out loud to Bruce, but it's not fair. Bruce is rewriting the rules for the Red Hood and it's making Tim's job harder. It's bound to fall apart sooner than later anyway. As far Tim's concerned, their newfound truce is tenuous at best. Todd has killed as recently as three months ago—t _hat they know of_ —and it’s only been two months since the whole Hood-trying-to-murder-him thing, and if that isn't a mental whiplash. He’d still been limping when Batman announced with his my-word-is-law voice that the Red Hood was off the bats' bingo books and given the green light to patrol his corner of Gotham. 

Tim would've thought it was a joke if it weren't for the fact that Bruce doesn't joke. And if there weren't actual lives at stake. The whole "truce" works as a temporary patch job to stop the Red Hood from cutting off the heads of anyone who crosses him. He gets why Bruce did what he did, even if he hates it.

He has to remind himself that Hood wasn’t actually going to kill _him_. At least, probably. He'd be taking a big risk here if he thought Hood was still in the city.

Which is why he's already several blocks into Hood's borough, not even trying to move stealthily, following the smooth, swooping arc of his grapple line between two towering modern buildings. He has good reason to be here. There’s been a lot of unanswered calls for help in this area the last week and not just pettier stuff. It may be winter, but it's still Gotham.

Just last night, he and Steph intercepted a shipping container packed front-to-back with bedraggled women, filthy from days of confinement in the dark, some obviously drugged and beaten. The women were already on a boat making its way down Gotham river. Oracle traced its departure back to docks of Crime Alley, which is why Tim is here tonight, to see if he can make sure there are no loose ends. Nothing as big as _human trafficking_ has gotten through Hood before.

Todd skipping town and not bothering to tell anyone is a too likely scenario. He's too much of a meticulous crime fanatic to get this sloppy, and there's been little sign of him.

He backed up his suspicious by checking out the recent hospital records for the types of gunshot injuries that he's come to associate with Hood, and there were barely any. Hardly Hood's signature. There should be at least a smattering of _shoulder-hip-foot_ triple shot injuries, along with some odd shaped bruises and stab wounds from obscure weaponry. The point is Hood uses harsher tactics then all of them, except maybe Damian if left unchecked, but there's no trail for the past week.

Bruce isn't here right now to be here to be creepily omniscient about it, but when Tim asked, even Barbara says she hasn't had eyes on him the last few days.

Hood's sudden departure would also explain why Dick's been so moody, though Tim won't pretend to even begin to understand Dick's preoccupation.

The point is, it'd also be nice to confirm his absence _now_ before things quickly escalate as they tend to do in Gotham. As soon as Tim confirms he's gone, they can step in before Crime Alley becomes a full on unchecked hotspot.

He did his homework—he always does his homework— so it's cold shock when he spots the glint of Red Hood’s helmet lurking on the flat rooftop of what looks like a squat apartment building. He's mid-swing, but he cuts his grapple line immediately, changing his trajectory from forward to _down_ to get out of the line of fire as quick as possible. He's surprised he hasn’t been shot at already. Or at least given several warning shots.

The switch to freefall is always a shock to his system—never won't be—but he manages to slow his descent with another grapple and catch himself on a lower rooftop ledge with his upper body. The sudden feeling of body-meeting-concrete reverberates through Tim’s whole frame and knocks the wind out of his chest for several struggling breaths before he not-so-gracefully hoists himself up and over.

He's several streets over from where Hood is, on a taller building that still gives him a good vantage point. Safely ducked down behind the cover of the concrete ledge, crouched to run, with only some scraped shins to show for his trouble so far, Tim reaches for the comm in his ear. 

“Red to O.” He tries not to sound out of breath. He's going to have a bruise across his chest tomorrow.

“I was just wondering if I’d hear from you," Oracle responds, immediate and welcome. Tim didn't tell Barbara what he was up to, but he knows she can trace his location. She might've had the same suspicions about Hood's absence that Tim did, because she doesn't tell him off immediately. "You running into trouble?”

He peels his ears for any indication that Hood is in pursuit, but only hears the normal constant hum of the city. “Uh, just. . . standby.”

“Sure,” she says, light and easy. Tim knows she’s ready to sic the nearest bat for him if he says the word, Crime Alley or not, but he doesn't actually want to escalate things. He wouldn't be here if he thought he'd run into Todd, despite what the others might think. Someone would end up hurt—probably Tim—and he doesn't actually want to be the one who throws a wrench into Batman's truce.

Now his options are limited. He could make a run for it, possibly drawing more attention to himself, or sit tight and wait for Hood to make a move. With mounting frustration he realizes the choice is between if he wants to be a sitting target or a moving target. With any real luck Hood will just ignore him and go about his business, assuming Tim is a dumbass who didn't mean to cross the boundary.

The fact that Hood's _not_ out of town is just enough to piss Tim off. It means Hood _is_ slacking off, and once again Tim has had to clean up after the mess he's left. _And,_ to top it off, now a trafficker gets to join the pile of cases he's not allowed to follow through on, not with Hood around. Even if he could get enough evidence to tip GCPD in the right direction, it would be _something_. It would've been better if Hood had left so Tim could finally follow through on _any_ of his Crime Alley cases.

He lets out a long breath; it's not the time to get worked up. He's almost pissed enough to welcome a fight, but he's not dumb enough to instigate one on Hood's own turf.

He lets several minutes tick by, his muscles starting to lock up from being held so tensely. Hood still hasn't shown his hand, which means he's probably in the clear to get out of there. He risks peek over the ledge, only to drop back beneath the ledge, landing hard on his ass with enough force to leave a bruise because _Hood is still there_.

Even from a few streets over, it didn't look like he had moved at all. It's _weird_. There’s no way he didn’t see Tim. He should have already split, or at least come physically threaten Tim out of his hood. Hood's hood ha.

Jesus, he's losing it.

He risks another look, and yep, there's the infamous Red Hood, unmoving, making no indication that he's a threat.

It's almost like he’s waiting on Tim to do…something.

Is he supposed to go over there?

There's no way. Hood hasn't attacked him so far, but that isn't the same thing as an invitation. He must be an idiot for seriously considering going over there to what? Talk? He hasn't talked to Todd one-on-one. . . maybe ever.

. . . then again, he's also let several opportunities go by to harm Tim, and if he is offering some sort of olive branch then Tim will never hear the end of it. If he can't follow his own lead, then he should at least see what the hell is going on that's making Hood so incompetent. Well, shit.

He’s grappling towards Hood's rooftop before his nerve can fail and he does something smart, like leave.

Hood doesn’t react at all when Tim swings—much more gracefully this time—to perch on the roof’s lip. It's a surprise to see that he's actually sitting with his legs stretched out, leaning back against the building's large generator box. Tim can’t see his face at all through his helmet, but it’s turned towards him. Maybe his position is meant to be something close to non-confrontational, but it’s only eerie. Tim stays alert, anticipating an explosion of violence, but still hoping for a stilted chat about what’s going on in Crime Alley. Or not going on.

There’s still no response when he climbs off his perch, or calls out to Hood. Twice.

Ok then. Well. . . he wasn't anticipating a quiet reception.

Now that Tim's looking, Hood's limbs lack tension, his head practically lolling. He doesn't look injured as far as Tim can tell, and half of him is convinced Hood is just fucking with him. He's tempted to just leave.

A heavy sigh escapes him, and he very warily approaches, looking for blood stains. He's about ten feet away when he scuffs his foot a little on the rough cement and Hood's head snaps up, right hand drawing his gun and firing a shot into the concrete in front of Tim all in less than a second. The bullet grazes the edge of Tim's boot. Tim doesn't move.

"What," Hood bites out, harsh, less a question and more a demand. Like he didn't just almost shoot him. The voice modifier in his helmet makes it sound like a growl.

Tim doesn't explain that he thought he was offering some weird unspoken invitation. It's super clear that's not what this was. He's also smart enough not to bring up Hood's recent failures while he's holding a gun and Tim's a close and open target.

"I—was just in the area. Checking in on you." It's close enough to the truth, but Hood visibly bristles, his body projecting his anger even if Tim can't see his face. The previously absent tension seems to be fill his frame, violence teeming just under the service. Tim takes a step back. More space is a great idea.

"Well d _on’t_ ," Hood spits out, staggering to his feet. Tim takes another few quick steps backwards, but Hood just stalks sideways to the ledge, never turning his back towards him, then steps off the edge before Tim can say anything. He's left alone on the rooftop wondering what the hell just happened.

It's clear that Hood is not up to par. He knows Hood hadn't meant to shoot him at all, or Tim would’ve been shot. It was more like he didn’t even notice him and then startled. Badly. All the times Tim's encountered him, Hood was hyper vigilant, but it’s like Tim got the drop on him. Not that he’s complaining about the lack of physical harm to himself, but the whole thing makes him a little worried. Not so much about the Red Hood himself—he doesn't have the emotional capacity for that still—but rather about what it means for Gotham if Crime Alley is under-defended and no one else is allowed to step in.

Tim shouldn't be the one dealing with this; with Todd here he's technically he's encroaching on their part of the deal, and if he provokes Hood, Batman will be furious. Bruce should be the one dealing with this. But he's not _here_. And Crime Alley's problems are suddenly spreading outside of Crime Alley. They could wait until Batman gets back, but even if Hood is just sick, a few days off can cause a domino effect of problems.

He lets out another sigh, his breath a cloud of steam in the cold air. Leaving would be easier, but it doesn't get them anywhere. Thinking Hood was gone may have been wishful thinking. If he had thought this through like he normally does he would have already had a plan for this contingency. He may have jumped the gun in light of the sudden freedom from Bruce's policing. He should've brought more negotiating powers. He should have brought Dick.

No time like the present. He presses his comm, hailing Nightwing, then starts to tail Hood deeper into his territory, following the sound of Red Hood's bike revving from several blocks over. They'll need to work something out with Hood without Bruce, even if it's short term, and Dick's the best bet. If anything, Dick should have already intervened, being the closest thing to a handler they'll probably ever have.

Dick's voice comes through a few seconds after Tim leaps off the apartment building.

"Hey Lil' Red, what can I do for you?" There's some grunting sounds in the background, like someone is currently meeting wrong side of Nightwing's escrima sticks.

"I need you to convince Red Hood to let us patrol in Crime Alley," Tim says. Better to get straight to the point.

Dick's response is an incredulous " _What?_ " followed by some more grunting in the background and Nightwing telling him to hold on. The comms go silent while Dick finishes up whatever he's doing, and Tim gets Barbara back on comms to tell her he's got the situation handled and that he's already called Nightwing for backup, cutting her protesting "Red!" by telling her he has to go and then ending the communication.

He has move fast to keep up with the bike. Hood turns east down an out of sight alley and idles there for several minutes—God knows why—before pulling out the other end and continuing east towards the waterline. Tim follows suit. He keeps to the shadows, sure to keep his distance as he runs across the tops of the buildings. He wonders if it's safe for Hood to drive a motorcycle what with. . . whatever is going on with him.

It's been long enough that Dick should be done with his thugs, and sure enough he comes back on comms a few moments later.

"Oracle says you're in Crime Alley. What the hell, Red." His words are clipped and angry. Tim didn't think Barbara would sell him out that fast, not before he could get Dick to see his side.

"She was fine with it when we thought the Red Hood was MIA."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

He gives Dick a quick recap of the last few nights, and their (Tim's, really) thought process, and Dick is quick to defend Hood.

"Give him a break, would you? Things happen all the time and it's impossible to stop them all. That's just part of this job. You need to get out of there. Right now. Before J finds out and decides it's cause to end B's whole thing."

Tim doesn't relent. "Stuff may _happen_ , but we always get the big things because if one of us is down, we have the rest of the team to cover us. Hood doesn't have that, and I'm telling you it's a problem right now. I just need you to convince him to let us patrol here until he can do the job competently. It doesn't even need to be all of us." Though if the stars align Tim can actually be free to finish some cases here.

He switches gears before Dick can even ask. "Look, I saw Hood, and kind of talked to him, so he already knows."

"He let you?" Dick sounds more than surprised.

"Well, I saw him on a rooftop, and he didn't take off, so I dropped in. He almost shot me, but I don’t think it was on purpose." And hopefully Dick could see that that kind of got to the crux of it. Hood is always reactionary and volatile, maybe out control with the intensity of his reaction, but Tim knows _Dick_ knows that Hood could never be said to use his guns by accident. "He just startled when I got close, but I think he was unconscious. Or at least passed out."

"On the roof," Dick deadpans. 

"Exactly." He can tell Dick is worried, and Tim knows he has him. "I don't know what's going on with him, but I can't just sit on my hands and hope it won't affect the rest of Gotham. Now, do you want his location or not?" Hood had finally ditched his bike a few blocks back from the docks. It's an exceptionally dark night, but Tim's been trained in the dark as much as the rest of them and can pick out Hood's figure moving between the shadows on the flat rooftops towards the waterfront.

" _You're still near him?_ " Dick sounds exasperated. "God, Red, you're going to be the death of me. You couldn't have waited to pursue this outside of J's literal marked territory?"

"I thought he was _gone_ , and then it seemed too pertinent to leave and—"

"It's fine, ok?" He cuts him off in a rush. He doesn't sound fine with it. If anything, he sounds somewhere between angry and panicked, and also suddenly out of breath. The image of Dick sprinting full throttle across the skyline towards him imprints itself on his mind. "I'm already on my way, so send it now, " Dick pants out. "Do not engage him. Just wait, ok? I'll be there soon."

"Sure," Tim says, sharing his coordinates directly through the hologram map on their wrists gauntlets.

"Just wait," he repeats. "And Red? I'm glad you're ok."

He means he's glad that the Red Hood didn't murder him, but he'll take it. It's the small things in life.

Tim silences the comms, but keeps the channel is open for quicker access in case one of them has an urgent update. Then he settles in to wait for Dick so they can have a half a chance at a decent powwow with Red Hood. He knows he can't persuade Hood for shit about anything alone, what with all the hatred Hood has had for his replacement, but he's not letting him convince Dick there isn't a problem.

Most of the buildings get shorter near the docks, but there's still a few warehouse type buildings that offer a better vantage point, and Hood seems to be setting up his own vigil on one of them. Tim keeps further back and higher, on a taller Gothic historical building that offers some of Gotham's beloved gargoyles for company.

He feels like he's about to stage an intervention, and it's probably not far off from reality.

It's a small thrill to know that there's the possibility to close out some Crime Alley leads later that night, if Red Hood is actually amenable. Tim knows Todd’s not the most stable, but he's got to be able to see the logic of accepting help.

The thought almost makes him laugh, like any of them are known for accepting help. He's going to have to avoid that phrasing if he ends up having to talk to Hood at all himself. Luckily Dick is the persuasive one.

The minutes stretch by, and Hood doesn't move from his perch, so neither does he. He checks on Dick's location, and he's moving fast, almost to the edge of Crime Alley. He must have grabbed a vehicle.

He's replaying in his head how exactly they're going to approach convincing Hood to let them patrol without it getting violent or personal, when he senses some kind of movement happening close to Hood's hideout. The low rumble of an engine starting. Someone shouting. He resists the instinct to go check it out.

Then the sound of rapid gunfire breaks out, and dockyard descends into a chaos of shouting and the pop and echo of bullets on metal. Tim grips the corner gargoyle as he leans off the side of the building, straining to get a clear view of what's going on. His view of the action on the waterline is partially blocked by a stack of shipping containers, but he can see several silhouettes running towards the those containers and he can still see Hood's warehouse building, the faint silhouette of Red Hood with his arm extended as he fires at someone below, giving off flashes of light from the dark shadows.

Tim sees the moment he collapses backward. He doesn't get back up.

Tim's hit his comms before he registers that his hand has moved. 

"Dick. . ."

-

Dick can feel how stiffly he's sitting in the passenger seat of the Batmobile, one hand on braced on the dash and the other at his ear as he listens intently to Tim describe the beginnings of a firefight. He signals Cass in the driver's seat to punch up their speed and the armored car roars as it accelerates, eating up block after block of city streets.

" _Tim_ , is he _hurt_." Codenames have gone out the window.

_"I don't know. I'm too far and it's too dark."_

Dick's heart is a jackrabbit in his chest. He's not one for prayer but please dear God let Jason be fine. "Cass," Dick says, barely a command, but she pours on the speed. They're rocketing dangerously past buildings, and he's still practically vibrating with the need to get to Jason.

_". . . you there?"_

"Yeah, yes. I'm still here." He didn't realize he had checked out. 

_"I said, I'm going to get closer."_

Dick doesn't know what that'll mean for whatever operation Jason is involved in, but he can't find it in him to care just then, not with the image of Jason possibly bleeding out in some godforsaken corner of Gotham surrounded by thugs. He knows its unlikely given the amount of body armor Jason has built in, but a myriad of other things could go wrong when he's apparently—how did Tim put it— _compromised_. Whatever that meant.

"I. . . Yeah. Okay." He's still angry with Tim for going rogue—and they'll have to deal with that—but he's also never been more grateful for Tim's bullheadedness. He’ll have time to be angry again later, when he has eyes on Jason and his panic has receded.

Him and Jason have just barely begun to talk, if Dick can call it that. It's been a week and three days since Dick screwed everything up, and he's probably left twenty voicemails on Jason's phone in the last three days, and at least a dozen texts. He would've sent more, but he's genuinely been trying to scale back on the level of intensity he knows he could reach if he didn't check himself. As soon as the week of waiting was up, with _still_ no word from Jason, Dick was chomping at the bit to talk to him, still torn between respecting his best guess of Jason's boundaries and making sure Jason knew Dick gave a fuck.

Which meant his first voicemail was practically incoherent, as Dick filled up the entire two-minute recording time rambling and tripping over his own apologies, which at that point felt so overdue it was approaching surreal. The second and third were more clear, as Dick actually gave himself time to gather his thoughts, realizing the possibility that Jason would answer was slim, but there. The rest were a mix of hopeful check-ins, questions about how Jason was and what he was up to, more apologies, and some stories about some of the wild things he saw this week, which they liked to swap. Like Dick having to help some frat boys wrangle their drunk, naked friend out of a freezing public fountain, while the guy himself was clutching a Costco-sized bag of beef jerky to his naked body and loudly recited the Declaration of Independence through a mouthful of dried meat. All his friends had to say about it was _Sorry, we just watched National Treasure_. Dick was too cold and annoyed to appreciate it fully at the time, but later he realized it was. . . truly something. Jason would've thought it was funny.

He didn't bring up sex. Not when he didn't—and still doesn't—know how Jason feels about things, and not when it's only a one-sided conversation of just Dick yick-yacking. He's going to at least partially follow Roy's advice and let Jason take the lead on this.

Basically, he'd gone full crazy stalker ex on Jason, but he knows Jason well enough to know if he was angry about it. Jason's always been reactive when angry. He's _unresponsive_ when he's feeling any number of other emotions.

And he must have read at least some of his messages, because earlier today Dick had sent a perfectly timed text to let Jason know the late afternoon food delivery to Roy's place was straight from Alfred's kitchen. He knows using Alfred and his cooking was playing dirty, but it also worked. He got a message back saying _Thank you._ Dick stared at it like it was the goddamn Mona Lisa.

 _Then_ , not five minutes later, Jason sent him an unprompted video. It was of Alfred's steaming food, the open container set atop Jason's lap. The video panned up to a television and there was Guy Fieri, in all his frosted-tip glory, proclaiming "W _elcome to Flavortown_." That was the whole video. Dick had watched it again. He could see Jason's sock-covered feet propped up on a coffee table and it had warmed something in him to his core.

The whole thing was stupid and undeniably Jason, and it had Dick flying high on endorphins for the entire afternoon. They hadn't talked in person yet, or about anything of substance, but he knew they'd get there.

And now this. It's a hell of a time to throw the boundaries of Batman's and Red Hoods relationship into the mix.

He doesn't know why Tim didn't come straight to him as soon as he thought there was a problem.

At least Tim didn't drag Steph into it.

Exactly like how he's dragging Cass into it.

Cass whips around a corner and the force of it sends Dick back in the seat, pressed tight against the leather. They couldn't be going faster.

He spares her a glance, knowing she's loving this, apparently winning dibs for the Batmobile against both Steph and Tim. He doesn't know if Bruce knows. He _does_ know she wasn't planning on breaking Batman's rules tonight on Dick's request, but she still answered his call for a quick ride. 

"Thanks for this, Cass."

She gives him a funny look, then takes another hairpin turn around a corner. The tires screech against the asphalt. Dick has to throw a hand out to stop his face from smashing into the passenger window.

"We are family. Yes?" She says it slowly, like it's for Dick's benefit. There's some cars stopped at a red light with some cross traffic streaming across the intersection. She swerves around the stopped cars into the opposite lane, then straight through the light, shooting the gap between a truck and a taxi.

Dick is back to bracing himself against the dash. "Yeah, Cass. We're family."

She seems satisfied, and then they're taking another corner, accelerating down the street and towards the nearest vehicle access entrance to the dockyard, avoiding having to find a break in the layers of fencing. They don't slow down, skidding straight through the security gate bar, breaking it clean off. Then Cass veers left before the security guards can respond and they speed straight down the waterfront towards where Tim's coordinates are blinking on the GPS. He hasn't heard from Tim in the five minutes it took for them to tear through Crime Alley, and he hits his comms.

"Red, we're almost on you."

"That's great," he says, with the telltale breathing of someone in a fight, "because the mafia is here."

-

The dockyard is a maze of stacked shipping containers and industrial sized cranes stationed between the river and warehouses. They find Tim between two stacks of shipping containers, a blur of red and black amid several large figures.

Cass swings the Batmobile around, drifting to avoid taking Tim out with the front of the car. Dick is out of the vehicle before it stops moving, rolling on impact then sprinting the last twenty feet to drive his foot into the solar plexus of the nearest guy, knocking him backward into the side of the container, stunning him. The guy is wearing a black beanie and looks like he can't be more than twenty-one. Dick spots the glint of metal in his hand leans down to twist and flick his wrist so he releases the knife.

Dick lobs the knife away, back behind the Batmobile, then whips around to parry the punch of another guy aiming for his head, pushing his forearm outward and creating an opening for Dick to knee the guy hard in the gut. He doubles over on him with a grunt, only to shove his shoulder up into Dick's chest, his opposite hand grabbing at Dick's waist. No respect for personal space these days. The guy is massive, all dense muscle, and he drives Dick up off his feet and slams him into the container, pinning Dick there by his shoulder to deliver several blunt punches to Dick's side and ribs before Dick can maneuver him into a chokehold, kicking off the man's thigh to get enough height and leverage to wrap his legs are the guy's thick neck, swinging backwards and taking them both down to the ground. His hands scramble against where Dick's legs have him pinned, but Dick tightens his hold around his windpipe for several long seconds until he slumps unconscious.

Dick clocks the first guy, who has clambered up from the ground and is crouched over someone else who is already out cold. He's frantically digging into the back of their jacket. Dick is up, escrima sticks in hand, and has delivered a downward strike to the left of beanie guy's neck before he can even turn around. Dick electrifies it for good measure, and beanie guy keels over. Dick takes the foraged gun out of the his limp hand and unchambers it, tossing the bullets onto the ground. He pats down the guy who's already out and the muscle guy but doesn't fine any other long-range weapons. They either didn't have any or Tim already disarmed them.

A thud sounds as Tim drops another thug. Dick counts five unconscious bodies, and a sixth still trying to grapple with Tim. Some are mafia—he can tell by their jewelry—but he's not convinced all of them are. Cass hasn't left the car. There's no sign of Jason.

"Red, where is he?" He calls out to Tim. The sound of sporadic gunfire is close, maybe several stacks away towards the building side, and if Jason's not here he must be closer to the main action. Cass and Tim can finish zip tying the guys here.

"Building roof! North!" Tim calls back, then roundhouse kicks his guy.

Dick is already moving, past the Batmobile, across an open lane, and into the opposite side of container stacks, running parallel to the gunfire. He still has to avoid several shadowy figures— _how many damn people are here_ —but the lights in this section have been shut off and it's easy to meld with the darkness. He just wants to get to Jason, not implicated in mafia dealings. Or even Jason's dealings. This is a mess.

He reaches the end of the shipping container sea, and makes an open beeline towards the closest building, grappling up to the rooftop. The building is near the end of a long line of warehouse, all flat roofs, all old. Dick runs north across the roof, crouched low. There's no sign of Jason. The next warehouse is the last and there's only water after that; the river bends, boxing in the docks from the north and east. From here he can see there's some kind of active standoff occurring with some reinforced semi-truck further down by eastern waterfront at this end of the shipping stacks. It's probably where Tim was headed before he got interrupted.

Dick leaps off the edge, grapple catching the old brick on the northern most warehouse. It's not the best set up for grappling, but he retracts without releasing and it gives him a taut line that has his feet landing on the side of the building above the large windows. From there he can grab the rooftop ledge and pull himself up.

He doesn't see Jason at first, and for a moment Dick dreads that he's dragged himself down towards the fight. Then he realizes what he mistook for vent's shadow looks a lot like a prone body. He's running again, falling to his knees by—

"Jason," he breathes.

Jason's splayed on his back, helmet in place, and gives no reaction to Dick's presence. Dick yanks down Jason's jacket collar, fingers finding his steady pulse, the other hand automatically running along his torso, making sure he's not bleeding anywhere. It's too dark to tell by sight, any blood would blend in with Jason's black gear, but Dick feels for any slipperiness, pressing fingers into all his vulnerable spots. Neck, underarms, femoral artery. He feels his limbs for any punctures or breaks. Nothing, thank God.

Dick carefully unlocks his helmet and gently pries it off. He feels along Jason's head, checking his fingers for blood. He presses his bare knuckles to Jason's lips and feels Jason's slow, steady breath on them.

He feels as relieved as he is worried.

Jason doesn't have a domino mask. There are dark circles under his eyes that look like bruises, even in the low light. Dick runs a finger over the delicate skin, half convinced their painted on.

Tim might've been onto something, thinking Jason was sick.

Dick takes out a small flashlight, then pries open an eye, shining the light on it.

Jason groans, but doesn't fight him.

"Shh, sorry." Dick pries the other one open and does the same. Both pupils dilate normally. He lets Jason close his eyes.

"Dick?" Jason mumbles.

"Yep. You ready to get out of here?"

Jason blinks his eyes open, peering out at him behind those bruised circles. He's frowning, and doesn't answer, like he's trying to process what Dick's on about.

"Dick?" He repeats.

Dick laughs wetly. "Yeah Jay, it's me. You feeling okay, honey?" He runs his hands through Jason's hair. Jason looks around groggily like he's just noticing where they are. The movement makes him groan and squeeze his eyes shut again. 

"Okay. I've got you." He braces a hand behind Jason's head and wraps an arm under his shoulders, levering him up into a seated position. "There we go." Jason leans against him, looking dazed.

The sound of approaching sirens grows louder, the police finally arriving. Dick called them right after Tim said the mafia was here. He doesn't know if it's Jason's mob who's here too, or some third party, with Red Hood just doing his own interception or reconnaissance. It's better to let the police sort it out than have Nightwing, Red Robin, and Black Bat dismantling Jason's operation, or even helping his operation by just taking out mafia members. Mess, mess, mess.

Dick hits his comms again, maneuvering Jason's arm around his own shoulders and getting a grip on his waist to pull him to his feet.

"Nightwing to Red and Black Bat, it's time to go. I've got Hood, but we need the car. What's your situation?" He snags the helmet with his foot and tosses it up, catching it with the hand not around Jason's waist.

"There's about ten guys left, two in the truck." That's Tim.

"Leave them." The sirens are almost on top of them.

". . . let me just stop the truck."

"Red, I swear to God—"

"It'll take one minute, I promise."

Dick sighs heavily. He can't really stop him.

"I am here, west of you." That's Cass.

"One minute, Red, that's it."

Jason stumbles as Dick half-carries him across the roof. Dick hooks Jason’s belt to himself, then grips him close to repel where Cass is waiting in the car. Jason holds on tightly, his bare face buried in Dick's neck. His breath is hot against his skin and it makes something in Dick's gut clench. He's ignores it.

On the ground, Jason stiffens when he sees the Batmobile and tries to pull away, yanking Dick closer by where they're still hooked together, nearly knocking them both over. Dick catches them before they hit the wall. "Whoa, hey, it's fine. Look, Batman's not here." He motions at Cass to roll down the window, and to be fair, her getup does resemble Bruce's cowl.

"Who'ssat?"

"Black Bat. You'll like her." They're still pressed up together, and Dick unhooks them. He helps Jason slip the helmet back over his head, just in case, and Jason lets him coax him into the backseat of the car, then climbs in behind him.

Cass is tearing out of there as soon as the door is shut, accelerating back towards Tim.

"What's in the truck?" Cass asks.

Dick looks at Jason, who slumped against him as soon as the car moved, the helmet pressed up against Dick's shoulder and cheek.

"I think he's out." He tamps down on the urge to pat him down again. He's sick or something, not bleeding. There's nothing he can do for him right now except get him out of there. "He deals in guns and drugs though. Not people." Just in case that's in question given Tim's finding yesterday. He knows he's being a little defensive.

She's sure to have more than a few follow-up questions, but they're coming up the side of the truck, which is now on the move, gaining speed through the open center lane of the shipping container yard. The truck is headed straight towards a line of cop cars at the end of the lane, all parked with their lights on. The cops are trying to shoot out the trucks tires, and the bullets ping off the front of the Batmobile. Cass swerves for cover behind the truck, and slows down, creating space. Tim's not on the truck, and they don't know what he's up to.

"Red. Where are you?" Cass speaks into the comms, and it echoes double in Dick's ear.

The answer comes in a rouge crane colliding with the top of a tall stack of containers, the bang of metal-on-metal followed by the screeching sound of metal giving under force.

The top of the heaping stack tips, and the massive metal boxes come toppling and crashing down into the open lane between the truck and the line of police, thundering into the concrete. The truck can't brake fast enough and slams into the makeshift blockade, crushing the hood and adding to the billowing cloud of dust.

"Holy. Shit." Cass drifts sideways again as to not run headlong into the back of the truck. The force of it throws them sideways in the back, limbs tangled. Jason's body is limp and heavy on top of him, and Dick clutches at him, holding him steady until they've come to a stop. Jason tries to jerk away, suddenly tense again, but his arms give out. Dick helps him up, propping him against the opposite door. Jason lets out another garbled groan, hands presses the against the front of his helmet.

"Red, where the _hell are you?_ " Dick's ready to leave without him, let him deal with the police. Let him deal with Bruce. 

"Here." Tim lands atop the back of the truck with a big grin on his face. He flips off the back just as the doors of the truck cab open and two men climb out, guns in hand. Shit, shit, shit.

Tim sees them at the same time, one tall and lanky and the other dressed in tacky tracksuit. For a second Dick thinks he's going to run towards the pair even though he's nowhere near close enough to get in close fighting range before they can fire in his face. But then he's moving, racing towards the Batmobile somewhat haphazard line. Bullets kiss the ground at around him.

Dick unlatches the door handle, ready to swing it open for him. And then Jason just kicks it wide open, yanking Dick back against chest and raising his gun towards Tim. Dick goes very still, back pressed tight against Jason, cradled between his arms and knees. Jason's arm is wrapped tight across his chest. He can see down the barrel of the gun where Tim's figure rushes towards them. Watches as Jason makes a minute shift and pulls the trigger.

The bullet lodges itself into the kneecap of the lanky guy. He screams. Then another, into the shoulder of tracksuit man. And another, into tracksuit's knee. The sound is deafening in the confines of the Batmobile.

Then Tim is diving into the open door, which slams shut with a bang as Cass hits the gas.

Silence descends on them in the confines of the car like a too-heavy blanket. It's the three of them crammed into the back, Jason and Dick pressed against one side and Tim on the other. Red Hood's gun is still pointed at Tim. At his center. His heart. Tim is incredibly still. Dick knows eyes are wide behind his mask. Cass glances back but doesn't stop driving.

"Jason," Dick says, trying to draw his attention. He'd trust him with his own life, but he doesn't want to test him with Tim, out of it like he is.

Jason's hand is trembling, and Dick slowly applies pressure to the bottom of Jason's forearm with his own hand, raising his arm so the gun's not pointed at Tim. Or lower, at Jason's own leg. Jason's other arm is still wrapped around his middle.

Dick telegraphs his movement as he moves his other hand up to push into the crook of Jason's elbow, bending his arm to bring the gun closer where he guides it out of Jason's hand and flips the safety on. He sets it on the floor of the car.

They let out a collective breath. Tim quietly climbs over the console to the front as soon as they hit the streets, not thirty seconds later. It's the furthest he can get from Jason's guns. No one says anything, probably ready for Dick to read Tim the riot act, and the silence stretches when he doesn't. He doesn't have the wherewithal to sort this out right now. He's never wanted to be some kind of liaison between Jason and the others. He's not going to do that to Jason. Something on his face must tell Tim not to push him.

Cass is driving at a blessedly sedate pace, and Dick lets the adrenaline bleed out of his body with the steady hum of the Batmobile. His body seems torn; it can't decide between the feeling of sticky dread that lingers after a mission-gone-wrong, and the pleasant post-mission jitters that usually end in a rooftop romp.

They mix together in his gut, both offset by the feeling of Jason shaking like a leaf behind him, around him, almost shivering. He's tightly clutching Dick's body to his own like he's afraid he'll leave. Dick covers Jason's arm with his own, squeezing as if to say _I'm not going anywhere_. He'd give anything to see his face, but he doesn't move away. He has things he wants to say, but not here. It's several minutes until the shaking subsides and Jason goes slack again.

Maybe it's the flu. Dick can't remember if Jason felt like he had a fever.

Dick can see Tim examining the hole in his cape where Jason's bullet tore through. He keeps glancing back at them.

"Turn left at the next light." It is Dick who breaks the silence, directing Cass towards Roy's building. Dick's never been inside, but he's had the address for weeks. It feels reminiscent of the last time they were together, Jason out of it and Dick handing him off to Roy. He doesn't want to leave him like this, but Dick'll always do whatever he thinks will make him feel safest.

"Are we. . . headed back to the Manor?" Tim asks.

It's tempting. He'd like to be there when Alfred finds out Tim meddled in the worst way. But again, he wouldn't do that to Jason. There's nothing funny about the thought of Jason waking up and panicking at the sight of his old home. "No, I'm taking him home."

"So. . . can we—"

"Nope." He doesn't know what Tim was going to ask, but he knows the answer is no.

"But—"

"Hey guys, there's been a small break-out being reported at the county jail," Barbara's voice comes through the Batmobile, interrupting whatever Tim was about to say. "It's about a mile away from you. Any chance Red Hood is with you?"

Tim looks back at Dick, like he's about to prove his point.

Dick pinches at Jason's arm a little, but gets no reaction. He's out cold. Tim _does_ have a point about having someone to cover Crime Alley, but he's not about to give him blanket permission to freely patrol without Jason's say.

"Hey O. Yeah, he's here. But that's a no go." Dick takes a second to deliberate. "Black Bat will check it out." Then to Cass, "That ok with you?"

"Yes." She sounds downright cheerful for being sent to a jail break.

"Alrighty, you're the boss," Barbara says. Coordinates pop up on the dash. "Let me know if you need anything else." He can tell that last part is aimed at him. She knows he's been pining for Jason—because she knows everything and because Dick acts like a lovestruck idiot when he comes up—but she knows things must have gone to shit if he's in the Batmobile with them. She hangs up. Dick knows she'll be speaking directly to Cass in a moment.

"Why does she get to patrol here?" Tim asks, indignant.

"Because I trust Cass to come straight back and not chase down twenty leads."

"That's not—" He begins to protest, then sighs. Frustrated. Resigned. "Yeah. That's fair."

A few minutes later Cass pulls the car over, a couple blocks from the coordinates. She takes to the rooftops, leaving them with the car. Dick extricates himself from Jason's loose hold, trying to make him comfortable before climbing out and into the driver's seat. He doesn't know how Jason's slept through their whole conversation. Dick pulls away from the curb, doubling back towards Roy's. Tim won't stop staring at him.

"What? Do I have something on my face?"

"It's just. . . Nothing." Tim looks away.

"No, you can say it. What is it?"

"It's just that, you're very gentle with him, is all."

Dick doesn't respond to that, not wanting to give away more than he means to.

"Are you mad?" Tim asks. He sounds curious, and hesitant.

"About you watching me? No, Tim, I'm not mad. But I'm more than a little frustrated about your little one-man expedition. We could have avoided tonight altogether."

"C'mon, we can at least agree that no one wanted to mafia to have a massive load of guns. Or drugs," he adds. "Now no one gets it." His tone is blithe, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm serious, Tim. Tonight shouldn't have happened." He doesn't mention that he's glad Jason wasn't left alone to spend the night on a freezing rooftop. He _is_ , but that's not the takeaway he needs Tim to get. "I don't think you understand how dependent Jason's no-killing rule is on our adherence to his territory guidelines. It's his only ask."

They stop at a red light. Dick turns towards Tim, grip still tight on the wheel. Tim gaze remains out the front window. "Look," Dick starts. "You're not the only one frustrated with the way things are. About dead ends and the crime leniency he gets. We all know things like this can't last, but do you really think for a second that Bruce doesn't have some twenty-step plan for working with Jason? You know him. You know he has to. And there's gonna be some give and take to that. And it's _our_ job to not blow that up in everyone's face."

The light turns green and they pull through the intersection. Dick glances at Jason's prone form in the rear-view mirror before continuing, letting the words come now that they've started. "Jason would've shot two less people if he wasn't covering your ass. And I'm glad he _did_ cover your ass, I'm not saying I'm not. But we got way too involved. You could have come to me the minute you thought something was off. You _should_ have come to me."

"You haven't exactly been around," Tim mutters.

"I have a _phone_. Or there's Bruce, then. We both know he would tell you what to do, even in China. Or there’s Barbara. Even Alfred."

Tim doesn't answer. Dick sighs, long and tired. He knows he's been a bit removed the last month, not visiting the Manor much, splitting his time between the cop gig, Jason, and Nightwing patrol, which is less of team activity than it used to be.

"I know I could stand to come around more. I've been preoccupied. Which, is not a good excuse." He's not exactly sorry for how he's spent his time, but he could do better. Make sure to come home. Maybe once a week. It's not like he lives far. It's not a burden, especially if it makes Tim know he can come to him immediately when there's a problem. "I do miss our movie nights, you know."

Tim snorts. "You haven't missed much. Damian keeps choosing these terrible film noir movies that are like three hours long. One didn't even have subtitles, and he called us all heathens for not knowing French."

That makes Dick huff a laugh. "That's Damian to a tee." He can see the whole thing playing out and it makes his lips curl into smile. "I'll make sure to be there for the next one. I'll bring nihilistic snacks."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means frozen corndogs, obviously."

Tim makes a disgusted face. "You know we have a butler who cooks gourmet cuisine, right? I'm genuinely worried about your diet sometimes."

"My diet is _fine_ , thank you. Now stop distracting me from being mad at you, it's working."

" _You're_ distracting you. I'm not doing anything."

"Yeah, yeah." He fiddles with the mirror to better see Jason. Tim watches him do it. "We can talk about making temporary arrangements, until he's. . .better. But I'm telling you right now that I don't think you'll be on the relief team, especially now. And you might want to think about how you're going to explain things to Bruce."

Bruce is sure to lay into him plenty more when he gets back. Tim slouches down. He's a teenager who's been told he's in trouble and not allowed to do something. Dick lets him sulk a little. He knows it's got to be frustrating to have a pile of unfinished projects, especially given Tim's OCD. There's probably a way to work on them, but he's not sure Tim will go for it. Or Jason. It's not like he can tell them what to do. As much as his family likes to call him bossy, he’d think they'd respond better to being bossed.

"You know, I bet there's a way you can work on your dead-end cases."

"How?" Tim looks at him suspiciously, but there's interest.

"You're a protégé of earth's greatest detective and were acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises for a minute there. I know you've got to have a few brain cells in there to figure it out."

"Ha ha." Tim is all sarcasm. Dick bites back a smile.

"I know you love me." His next words aren't exactly casual, but he tries not to press them too hard. "I was just thinking you might try to follow Bruce's lead, if you're willing. It might be better to compromise than end up with nothing."

"You saying that's what Bruce did?"

"Something like that." He lets Tim think about it. They're here anyway, pulling up outside Roy's building. He doubts Roy's going to be happy to see them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fic, as a treat.
> 
> I can't believe I have written this many words. Two months ago I hadn't written a thing in my life. Give it a try, all you lurkers out there. If you want. It's not perfect, but it's a fun time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading y'all! Remember that it's fine if you're not peak productive during pandemic times. Stay safe <3 
> 
> Be back soon, I had to split this chapter because it got hella long.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey honey, where's Roy?"
> 
> The answer is a long pause, and then, ". . .Space."
> 
> "Is he on a mission?"
> 
> Jason hums, which is as good as a yes, ruling out alien abduction at least. Tim's mind is still tripping over _honey_ , further erasing any doubt he had that the two are _involved_.

They're pulled up in front of some tenement building. Tim watches Dick grab the gun off the car floor and pull Todd out of the back, who's absolutely no help. He looks completely limp, passed out again. Tim doesn't offer his own assistance. He's been on the wrong side of Red Hood's guns twice tonight and he won’t apologize for being wary. He'd wait in the car if he could, but Dick's practically carrying Todd and looks at Tim expectantly, asking him to get the door of the building with a tilt of his head. He gets the door.

Dick leads them up several flights of stairs and down a dimly lit hall, Hood slung over his shoulders, to a worn door that blends together with the rest of the dingy doors they've passed. He doesn't have a key or anything like that, which satisfies Tim's own sense of normalcy. A run-in with the Italian mafia is at least somewhat par for course, but it'd be too weird to think Todd is handing out keys to his apartment.

Dick braces Hood with one hand, freeing the other one to knock on the door. No one answers, no footsteps or sounds indicating anyone is home. Dick adjusts Hood for a better hold and fiddles with his wrist gauntlet, making a call. It rings all the way through.

"Is someone supposed to be here?" Tim asks. He'll admit he's more than a little curious about Todd's living arrangements, not that it's something he's thought about much before.

"Yeah. Roy, normally." Dick knocks again, louder. No one answers.

"Do they live together?" He knew Roy Harper was given permission to visit Gotham because Arsenal was added to Gotham's green list, given clearance by Batman himself, even if he hasn't been active. He didn't know Harper and Todd were close, let alone _living together_ close. He had figured Hood was dedicated to his lone wolf persona.

"Kind of." Dick doesn't offer anything more, just adjusts Hood again and asks Tim if he has his lock picks with him, to which the answer is _obviously_. He makes quick work of the door; they're all still in costume, standing out in the open hallway. He holds it open for Dick and his human cargo, letting it swing shut behind them, then fumbles for the light.

The apartment is nothing like he's expecting, and he didn't think he was expecting much. He wouldn't even call it an apartment, really. Hell, he wouldn't even call if a safe house. It's practically a squat, completely stripped bare of furniture and appliances, and absolutely freezing. It's the middle of February and it feels like the heat's been turned off. Todd can't seriously live here, like this. 

Dick must have the same thought because he mutters something like _hell_ under his breath and lugs Todd's limp form through the door down the short hall. Tim follows, still taking in the ugly green walls that lead into a bedroom with phenomenally terrible wallpaper, dark floral and ripped in places. Bruce would have a conniption if he saw this place. And _Alfred_ , dear God, he'd never stand for it.

The bedroom is almost as bad as the living room, just a couple of bare mattresses stacked and pushed to the far corner and a small pile of moving boxes by the closet. It's quite sad-looking, and not just because of the lack of furniture.

Dick is there, lowering Hood off his shoulders onto the makeshift bed. He strips him of his guns and pushes them out of reach on the top mattress, seemingly having at least has a modicum of caution before he reaches to pull at Todd's signature helmet.

Tim busies himself by hovering by the door frame and pretending he can't hear Dick's words which somehow seem private, pitched soft and low. " _Let me help you get this off. Nice and easy, that's it. There you are."_

Dick manages to tug the helmet off with still no movement from Todd, though having someone something tightly dragged over his face couldn't have been comfortable. His naked face is a shock to Tim for some reason, and Tim realizes it's because he's only seen it in pictures. Every time he's had a run-in with Hood he's at least had a domino mask on.

It's weird. He looks…not exactly young—all of them have seen too much to really be called young anymore—but maybe less harsh than he was expecting, out cold with his hair wild and half helmet-smashed. The whole _night_ has been weird, what with Hood randomly losing consciousness, and the way Dick has been acting, all panicky and then oddly tender, and the way Hood got all up close and personal with Dick in the car. It's enough to make him wonder.

Dick is in full-on tender mode now, feeling Todd's forehead like he's checking his temperature, and Tim knows there's no way Dick is going to let them leave him here alone.

"I take it Roy moved?" Tim asks, and it makes Dick glance over his shoulder at him.

"There was furniture here earlier today. I think Jason must've cleared things out this afternoon."

"How do you know that?"

"Because in a video—just, because I know."

Yeah, there's definitely something more going on between Dick and Todd. Which is. . . something to process. Later. He bites his tongue for the moment, it's probably none of his business anyway, unless of course it means Dick breaking his own stipulation of _don't blow things up in our faces_. He'll definitely be cornering him. Dick's already turned back to Jason.

"Hey Jaybird, we need you to wake up now. Just for a minute."

 _Jaybird_ doesn't seem like he's hearing anything, and a shake to his shoulder breeds no response. Tim's about to suggest ice water, but Dick crouches down to blow quickly in his ear and _that_ works. Todd bursts into movement in a blur of limbs, fists swinging like he's fending someone off, grasping for a gun at this thigh that's not there, thank God.

He gets Dick good across his cheekbone before Dick can get his arms up in defense and the momentum almost topples Todd off side of the bed. Dick catches him with a "whoa!" and flops him back up, then promptly plants his own butt down on the edge of the bed, one hand on Todd's chest and the other rubbing at the bruise on his own cheek. Jason’s breathing is heavy but seems to deflate some under Dick's hand, especially when Dick says, "Hey, Jay. It's just me."

Jason lets out a unfiltered groan which tapers off into something between and cough and whimper, eyes squeezed tight like he's blocking out the world. That must not be enough because he then drapes an arm over his face for good measure.

"G' away," he mumbles. "Tired," he adds. Dick removes his hand from Todd's chest and runs them both through his own hair. 

"Sorry Jay, but you can't sleep here, it's too cold," Dick says. Tim doesn't think that's only reason but whatever works. "Do you want to stay with Roy? Do you know where he is?"

"…D’ you drug me?" He slurs in lieu of answering, and what a question. If it was aimed at Batman, Tim honestly wouldn't be surprised. At least Todd seems to be aware that he's impaired.

Dick, of course, is alarmed, which seems to be an extension of tender-mode, his hands back on Todd's face and forehead, nudging Todd's arm out of the way. "Do you feel drugged, Jay?" Dick looks over his shoulder at Tim who can only shrug because he didn't see anything happen but it's certainly possible. Dick turns back, speaking slow and measured. "No, Jason, I did not drug you. But we can take you to the doctor’s. Do you feel high or—"

Todd is already shaking his head. "No, no, no, no, no—"

"Okay, okay. That's fine. No doctor right now." Dick's quick to placate, hands hovering, shaken off by Todd's movement.

"M'fine." Todd insists, though the question _did you drug me_ certainly undercuts it. He goes back to silent mode, head turned away, ignoring them, or more than likely halfway asleep again.

Dick sits back and lets out a long exhale like he does when he's gathering his thoughts, or when he needs minute to compose himself before schmoozing some wealthy schmucks at some charity gala. Tim wonders if he should dip out now before Todd actually notices him, because right now he's feeling rather useless and mildly voyeuristic, watching the scene play out. From staring at how Dick and Todd interact. He knows Red Hood would definitely not want Tim to hear Dick near-shushing him, and he'd sure to beat Tim's ass if Tim were to ever bring it up.

He starts to inch back that way, but then Dick opens his mouth.

"Hey honey, where's Roy?"

The answer is a long pause, and then, ". . .Space."

"Is he on a mission?"

Jason hums, which is as good as a yes, ruling out alien abduction at least. Tim's mind is still tripping over _honey_ , further erasing any doubt he had that the two are _involved_.

Todd doesn't say anything else, apparently intent on sleeping here, cold or not.

Dick silently gets up off the edge of mattress and strides with intent towards the door, waving Tim ahead of him through it and into the kitchen, following suit himself. Tim turns to face him, hopping up to perch on the countertop, feet hanging down against the cupboards, waiting for Dick to tell him the plan, if they need to pay the heating bill or what. There's a glass Pyrex dish sitting on the counter-top by Tim, one that looks exactly like the kind Alfred has back at the manor. He wonders idly if everyone in their family has some kind of secret relationship with Todd. He wonders if Alfred knows about and Dick and Jason.

Dick looks like he's gearing up for something, shifting stance, fingers intertwined in front of him, body language guarded but trying to look open.

"I have a big favor to ask," Dick says at the same time Tim blurts out, "Are you sleeping together?"

Dick about chokes on his tongue. Tim wasn't even planning on asking but it came out and that's a yes if he's ever heard one.

" _Oh my God_ , Tim."

"That's not a no."

"It—It's complicated."

"And you're sure it's a good idea?"

"Tim, I don’t—Yes? Maybe?" Dick rubs his face. His mask is peeling up a bit in the corner. "I don't fucking know. I can't get into this right now." He's never heard Dick so minced with words, and holy hell he must be in this thing deep.

"But like, when did you…and how, and why?" Tim asks, questions tangling together in his mouth. How did Tim ever miss this. He wants to ask how long. Or how this even happened. _Why_ it even happened. Todd is prickly at best, deranged and homicidal at worst. He wants to ask if it's like one of those fucked up honeypot mission where the honeypot gets counter-seduced. He wants to know if Bruce knows, because there's no way this wouldn't be a factor in his bring-Hood-to-the-light-side plan.

"It's not like a honeypot mission, is it?" Tim asks, because his mouth is not under control. Not now when his brain is busy trying to process the revealed entity that is Dick-and-Jason. 

"What? No, of course not!" Dick's says, flustered. "I just," Dick stops. Gets stuck on his next words. Starts again. "It's just, I like him, okay? I know it's unexpected, and I know it might have some repercussions, but I really like him." Dick rubs a hand down his face again like he can wipe away this conversation.

He must feel where the glue is failing because he just peels his mask all the way off, rubbing at the residual on his face. He continues, "And I know that me—us—being…whatever we are…could seem like I don't—that I'm…" A frustrated breath. He meets Tim's eyes. "What I'm trying to say… is that it doesn't discount what he did to you. This isn't me saying that it doesn't matter, because it very much does. It can't happen again."

Huh. Dick would be worried about that.

"Don't tell me you have some sort of misplaced guilt complex for his surprise assault on me," Tim says with a grin, because it's so _Dick_ that it's funny. He can practically see the logic path of Dick's worried little brain. "I know you don't condone me getting physically attacked by the Red Hood, even if you want to, what, date him?" He kicks a little at cupboard, foot swinging. "It's not like I'm dying to hang out with him, but I have eyes. I can see the difference between three months ago and tonight." He won't tell Dick that he thinks his boyfriend is still pretty crazy—or reiterate that the current way things are set up in Gotham is bullshit—but it wouldn't be fair to blow off what progress has been made. "If he wants to apologize, though, I'm all ears. He's going to have to buy me an unbelievable amount of coffee."

Dick's openly contemplating him, looking like he's still ready for Tim to react any other way. "You're really taking this in stride."

"It's because I'm the most well-adapted. Alfred's words." He sticks his tongue out, which does the trick to crack Dick's tension a little, making him snort and almost earns Tim an eyeroll. Of course, then Tim dives right back in with, "So like...did you guys get into some lover's quarrel? Did you break up?" He waves his hand towards the hall, in case there was any question who he was talking about. "Do you think the fatigue is emotional?"

Dick huffs a laugh, a half-incredulous thing like he can't believe Tim's asking. Someone has to. "Did anyone tell you you're too much like Bruce?" he ask. "Also, please never calls us lovers again," he says, nose wrinkled in disgust.

"So that's not a no. And your deflection is duly noted." He basically just told him he’s too perceptive.

Dick sighs and relents, gesturing in small circles to his own eyes and Tim knows he's thinking about the dark bags Jason was sporting, visible even across the room. "I don't think he's been sleeping, but that shouldn't affect him to this degree?" It comes out a question. "If he had any breathing problems I would have already dragged him in to get a toxicology report."

"Hmm." Tim says, because Dick is probably right, but Tim also wouldn't be surprised if a fight between the two of them is a factor in the past weeks failings in Crime Alley, as Todd has already proven to be susceptible to emotional turbulence.

Tim would even put money on the guess that something happened about a week ago, though he's not going to push for the specifics of their relationship drama because he doesn't need to be _that_ involved. It's not like he can blame Dick for the unforeseen repercussions, and he's not enough of an ass to voice that as an accusation, though knowing Dick's propensity to take responsibility he's likely landed on blaming himself already. Tim changes the subject, "You said you needed a favor?"

"Oh, yes, well, fuck. Okay. So I'm not trying to push your boundaries with Jay, and you don't have to stay if you say yes,—"

"Stop hedging and just ask."

"Okay, okay. So, could I take him to the brownstone? Just for tonight. It has that guest room, and it's not the manor, and it's not _here_." Dick looks around at the alcove of a living room with it's sad, brown carpet and the strip of linoleum with a sink that makes up the kitchen.

Tim's not dumb. It's obvious why the manor is out of the question; it’s the last place Todd would want to be, and would definitely cause some rifts one way or another. Between Dick and Todd, or Dick and Bruce, or Todd and Bruce. Not to mention Tim's not looking to share a roof with him at the moment. So, no. 

And it’s obvious why Roy's place is not the ideal choice. He can almost see his breath, it's so cold. Tim knows he might be being a little aggressive with his judgement because at another time, with furniture and a microwave and a refrigerator and heat, the space would probably be livable…though still an eyesore. Sue him for thinking Hood could splurge more money on basic housing comforts; he's got to making loads off all his dealing. 

The brownstone, though, that's Tim's space. It was once one of Bruce's properties for receiving travelling business executives on any length of stay, but when Tim was essentially running the Wayne Enterprises it kind of became his own acquired retreat, away from the manor and night life. No talk of business or vigilantism allowed. He can do homework there, or sleep over the night of an early class, or watch a dumb movie and ignore the whole thing in favor of a game on his phone without being called an unappreciative imbecile by their resident Damian.

He knows it's not actually _his_ , but Bruce still has a skyrise penthouse for use, and the lower level consultant-type businessmen often prefer hotels anyway, and honestly Bruce mostly can't be bothered anymore with the smaller logistics of Wayne Enterprises to worry about those kinds of accommodations. He has people for that. A lot of people. So though the brownstone isn't _his_ , everyone treats it like it is, which is just as well.

He's doesn't love the idea of Todd there, but he's not fundamentally opposed to it if Dick is also there and the alternative is here. Still, Dick's is missing the most obvious option.

"I think your apartment is closer," Tim says, because it is.

"I know," he says slowly, "but it's not the best idea right now." He leaves it at that, letting Tim fill in the blanks.

The scene of the fight if Tim had to gander. It must have been a gnarly one. 

"Yeah, okay. Sure." It's probably not exactly what Dick had meant but look at him now, compromising for Todd. Or for Dick, more like, but still. "But I'm not staying there tonight, and you have to talk to him about Crime Alley patrol."

Dick takes the three steps to give him a bear hug, the kind that pins his arms tightly to his sides and makes Tim automatically grumble. "Thank you, Tim. I can talk to him tomorrow." His earnest sincerity is almost too much.

"I get it, I'm the best, now off." He struggles out of his embrace. "Jesus, you reek." He smells like patrol and sweat and _whew_. Dick has the audacity to laugh, clearly relieved.

"I'm going to find him some civvies and then we can bounce." Dick is already taking steps backwards towards the bedroom. "Can you check with Cass? Make sure she made it out okay?"

"Yep," Tim waves him off. What a night.

-

Dick is here. The thought bounces along in his mind, ping-ponging lazily between distant dread and muted elation. Something about that is. . .not right, him being here. It's not wrong exactly, but not right.

He needs him, to do something, or not do something. He doesn't know. To leave, maybe, but something about that strikes him with aching sadness that pools heavy in his chest, making him feel breathless, flushed and miserable. The space behind his eyes burns hot, and then he feels the tears trickle down the sides of his temples and into his hair.

The feeling is distracting. Foreign. It veers his mind sharply away from whatever it was he was sad about, until—

"Jason."

Dick is here. Something else is said but the words get lost. It doesn't matter. Dick is here.

"Jay, honey. Open your eyes."

He likes when Dick calls him that, like he's sweet. He didn't even know his eyes were closed. He opens them. Maybe he blinked and forgot to open them again. Dick is close, taking up his whole field of vision. There's a tick in his jaw. Jason wants to smooth it away but his hands feel too far away.

Dick gently wipes the tears away with two fingers. He's talking.

". . . that okay?"

He doesn't know what Dick wants but he nods once. The movement makes a wave of dizziness rush through him. He's too tired. He can't remember ever being this tired. He lets Dick flit around the room, tracks him by his footsteps. Jason wonders why he can't see him until he remembers his eyes have closed again. He doesn’t want him to leave.

"Ready?"

There are hands on him, arms slipping under his back. He doesn't want to be touched by strange hands but they lever him up and his thoughts tumble sideways into darkness.

-

He falls backwards into jolted wakefulness, arms flinging out on their own accord only to hit barriers on both sides. _Up_ , his brain supplies. _Out_. He tries to claw upward towards air and freedom but he's blocked in from above too. He’s closed in. Back in the coffin.

Something about that isn't right but he's still seized by cold terror, its tendrils crawling down his throat as he scratches at the thick lining of the coffin. He's hyperventilating and he's going to run out of air before he can get out. He can't call out for Bruce, he chokes on the words. The smell of Bruce's cologne is overwhelming, and he doesn’t know why Bruce decided it was better to bury him alive.

Nothing makes sense, the walls are shifting and he doesn't know which way is up. He's going to be sick. Something like a sob escapes his throat. 

_"Jason? Shit, okay."_

Now he’s fucking hallucinating voices, what is happening.

The motion stops suddenly. He didn't realize he was moving. It's enough to make his lethargic brain pause its one-man march into a horror fest, his body freezing up for a moment.

_“Tim, take the wheel. Switch me.”_

There's a blast of cold air by his head, and he’s moving again, pushing towards it, dragging himself towards air. Hands catch him, brace him. He clings to an arm as saliva pools in his mouth and his body heaves. Vomit splatters onto the asphalt below.

Another wave hits him before he can get a proper breath and he fights it, his tendons strain with the effort, his whole body pulled taut. He lets the hands hold him steady as he loses the fight, acid burning his throat until he can gasp in the crisp air between gags.

_“I’ve got you. That’s it Jay, get all the bad stuff out.”_

He lets the words penetrate his reeling mind, gags again, swallows, breaths through the nausea and dizziness. Slowly his body relaxes and slumps, losing the grip on the supportive arm, but the hands are there, keeping him from falling, carding through his hair. He can feel his own sweat, on his face and through his shirt, making the cold air feel colder. He's sure he'd be shaking if his body wasn't so _done_.

_"That's it, sweetheart, you're okay."_

He blinks hard, and blurred vision gives way to a sidewalk curb, chipped with old red paint. He’s. . . leaning out of an open car door. And when he tilts his head up to find the voice he finds Dick's blue eyes looking back at him, crinkled in worry.

Dick is _here_. That seems important.

_". . . good?"_

What.

He feels anything but good, but he can't find his mouth to say it. He's tired. Dick seems to understand, crawling into the back seat to help him with his sluggish limbs, maneuvering Jason so he's laid out on his side, legs bent to fit in the back seat, his head resting in Dick's lap. Jason lets his arm hand down, hand loosely wrapped around Dick's ankle, convincing his brain that this is real.

And Tim? Is driving? That still doesn't make sense. Drake hates him, for good reason.

He vaguely remembers seeing Red Robin on a rooftop. Sometime. Earlier. He didn't think that was real.

They start moving and he can't stop the shudder from racking his body, the dizziness returning full force.

_". . . little vertigo. We’ll stop moving soon. Just rest."_

He rests.

-

He wakes to phantom hands. They're not real, he knows that, but that doesn't stop them. He's trying to say something, get them to stop touching him, but he can’t find his mouth, it’s gone.

He finds his hands and brings fumbling fingers to his lips to see where it went. _Fuck_. His mouth forms the word, barely spoken, drawn out against his fingers. He can feel his brain catch on it, mouth echoing a quiet litany of _fuck fuck fuck_. Feels the hot words against his fingertips. 

The litany stops when he stiffens from the feeling of other fingers, not his, taking his hand away from his mouth and a hand—the same hand?—smoothing his hair back from his face. 

_“Shh, you’re okay, Jay.”_

He tries to pinpoint the source but everything further than the 2 inches in front of his face seems like an impossibility. It might as well be outer space.

They're moving still, turning, and the dark space rushes towards him to swallow him.

-

He wakes up in the back of the Batmobile, feels himself about to be pulled back under exhaustion's blanket when the door opens and he's bodily pulled out.

-

He's upright, arms holding him up, feet catching on a door frame.

-

The feeling of his head hitting a pillow. Someone tugging his at the laces of his boot. He's asleep before the second boot is pulled off.

-

He drifts into half-awareness sometime later, the world finally steady around him. He squints at the dark silhouette standing over him. Female, average height. As dreams go it's vaguer than usual, distant in quality, no feeling of the usual panic or dread. He must make some kind of noise because the silhouette responds.

_"Hi handsome. Go back to sleep, you've played your part beautifully."_

The silhouette moves across the room without a sound, looking for something. A light switches on in the hall, streaming in from the open door, still too bright for Jason's eyes. He lets them drop closed against the assault. 

_"There's nothing here worth stealing."_ That's Dick, voice tight, low in volume but dangerous.

A pause, _"It's not stealing if you're taking back what's yours."_ The other voice is a pleased purr, matching Dick's quiet volume. _"Though it's lovely to see the bats have decided to kiss and make up with our favorite crime boss."_

_"You do something to him? That why you're here?"_

Oh. Dick is angry _._ The thought makes something like nerves swoop in Jason gut, but it's accompanied by pleasant tingles.

_"Calm down, pretty bird, it's hardly lethal. I think he's cute like this, all tuckered out, wouldn't you agree?"_

_"Drugging Jason isn't cute, Selina."_ Yeah, he's definitely angry. Jason wants to see him, all hot righteous fury, but he can't muster the energy to open his heavy eyelids, now. _"People almost got trafficked because he was passed out on some roof."_

_"Now, now, I heard another birdy caught that."_

_"That’s not the point_ ," Dick breaks off with a quick inhale, slow exhale. _"I don't suppose you'll share why you've ventured into remotely sleep-gassing Red Hood? Or how many times you've gassed him this week."_

 _"My clients needed a window is all. I delivered. No harm done. And before you get all up in arms, they're hardly nefarious. Real small-scale stuff."_ There's still grin in her voice, amused but still abating; she's not here to fight. _"There was just the twice. Call one a test run. They're only supposed to be active for about an hour, but it looks like your boy is sleepy."_ Jason can feel their eyes on him.

A sigh from Dick. _"Where's the delivery apparatus? And the tracker, I assume."_

 _"In the helmet,"_ she says, pleased. " _Is Nightwing going to let me steal it back?"_

_"Not a chance, but you already knew that. Show me where."_

The voices move away. Jason drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> I promise Dick and Jason will finally talk things out next chapter because jesus it's been too long. 
> 
> Also if you noticed I changed chapter count to /?, don't worry, I know where this is going and how it ends. I just wanted to give myself a little freedom in case I need to keep splitting things like I've found I've needed to. 
> 
> Next time, darlings.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different kind of tension hits when he realizes Dick is probably somewhere just out that door. His memories are spotty from the blurred confusion of earlier, but he distinctly remembers Dick holding him up while he was sick. The memory alone makes his face burn from half-mortification and half something he doesn't want to examine too closely, not when he's been trying to avoid him most of the week.

It's still dark when he wakes, awareness slowly drifting down to meet him, a pleasant relief from the panicked adrenaline that he's becoming used to. He's in a bedroom, under the covers, the unfamiliar shapes and shadows of the room drumming up more curiosity than anxiety. Still, he's tired of waking up God knows where.

Jason props himself up on an elbow and blindly reaches for the lamp on the nightstand, knocking over a cup of water in the process, but manages to click the light on. The light casts a warm glow, revealing traditional furnishings, sturdy and expensive. One of Bruce's places, probably. The thought makes apprehension bubble up inside him and he's out of the bed in a second, avoiding stepping in the puddle of water on the carpet.

He has no way of knowing if Dick called Bruce, if Bruce is here now. The idea shouldn't cause so much uneasiness but it does, standing there barefoot in Bruce's space. He considers climbing out the window for a passing moment, even takes the steps to look out and see how far up he is—only two stories—but he doesn't have his boots, or phone, or anything, really. Just the tactical pants that he was wearing last night and his undershirt, the body armor removed and put somewhere out of sight.

Looks like he stays, then. He lets out a long breath, sits back on the bed. He tells himself Dick probably wouldn't have called Bruce anyway, unless things were extremely dire. He's seen Jason clam up a dozen time whenever Bruce comes up, and even if he did call him, there's no way Dick invited him over. Dick wouldn't do that to him.

Knowing that makes the tension in him dissipate a bit.

There's a neatly folded pile of soft-clothes at the foot of the bed. His own, from Roy's. He's still too wired to think about changing into sweats, like if he touches them he'd be committing to staying here til morning. He doesn't know what time it is anyway, but the sky is dark, hours from any blue-tinted hue of coming sunlight.

A different kind of tension hits when he realizes Dick is probably somewhere just out that door. His memories are spotty from the blurred confusion of earlier, but he distinctly remembers Dick holding him up while he was sick. The memory alone makes his face burn from half-mortification and half something he doesn't want to examine too closely, not when he's been trying to avoid him most of the week.

There's no avoiding now. He doesn't know if he's happy about that or not. It's fine. He's fine.

He peeks into the dark hall. There's a closed door at one end, stairs at the other, a bathroom across the hall. He uses the bathroom and washes his mouth out, taking the hand towel off the rack to throw over the spilled water in the bedroom, then makes his way downstairs.

He finds Dick sitting in the living room, wedged in the corner of an L-shaped couch in a mountain of pillows. He's dressed in sweat shorts and a long-sleeved crew neck and he's wearing those thick-rimmed glasses of his. They're not even real—the glasses—just blue-light ones for screens, but they're still really fucking cute on Dick.

Dick's got the news playing low on the tv in the background, but he's intently focused on the screen of his laptop perched atop his lap, arms folded across his chest, feet propped up on the large ottoman. 

Jason's stomach swoops at the sight, his traitor body excited. Or maybe it's fear, he can't tell the difference right now. The last time he saw him they were both naked—barring the intermittent black outs and vomiting of a few hours ago.

Jason rubs a hand down his face, trying to wake up a little more. Dick hasn't noticed him.

"Hey."

Dick just about whips his head up, sitting up from his lounging position in the same beat.

"Jason. Hi," he says, voice soft and breathy, setting the laptop aside. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Good, actually." And he means it. He somehow forgot in the last days what it's like to be under the full force of Dick's attention but now Dick's looking at him like drinking him in. Jason clears his throat and starts with the obvious. "So, uh, this Bruce's place?" It's just something to say, but it comes out tense. Luckily Dick doesn't miss a beat.

"Tim's, kind of. But yeah, Bruce's more or less." He changes the subject for him. "You must be hungry, there's some boxed meals in the pantry. Or, actually, there's a Thai place down the street that delivers late." He grabs his phone.

"I'm fine, really," he insists before Dick can call. Knowing him, the convenient _down the street_ actually means _my favorite Thai place I already have on speed dial_. "I had Alfred's dinner not that long ago."

"Jason…that was yesterday."

"Yeah, I know. But it's still dinner—”

"No, I mean it was _yesterday_ yesterday," Dick says, like that cleared things up. "You were asleep for, like," Dick checks his watch, "nineteen hours."

"Oh." That…does clear things up. That's a long time. Now that he's taking stock of his body, some of the tight nerves in his gut could be attributed to hunger. "Yeah, I could eat."

"Yeah, I thought so," Dick laughs at him, but it's not mocking.

Dick calls and places an order, and in typical fashion gets immediately sucked into a conversation about how Chantana's daughter got into Julliard or something. Some things never change, but a point to Jason for being right about Dick being a frequent customer.

Jason sits. Across the room, on a weird-looking orange velvet chair with a single stand and base instead of legs. It swivels. Dick doesn't seem to mind his choice of seating, chatting away on the phone, mouthing _sorry_. He keeps smiling at Jason.

Jason relaxes a little.

He can't believe he slept through the entire day and now it's evening again. He thinks the most consecutive sleep he's gotten the last week is three hours. The most he's ever gotten in the last year can't be more than six.

He wonders where his phone is. It's probably been blown up by Thomas after yesterday's disaster operation. The whole falling-asleep-on-the-job thing was not ideal, but if his memory is believed then there was way too many Bertinelli mafia members there for a simple delivery. He's ninety percent sure that Warren sold them out.

Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure he shot Warren. Out of the back of the Batmobile.

He wonders who saw that, if it's gotten around Crime Alley yet that he's curiously buddy-buddy with the Bat vigilantes. Well…there's nothing he can do about it now.

Dick says goodbye in Thai and hangs up. "So," he says with a half-smile, attention back on Jason. There's a thin, decorate table pushed up behind the couch on one side and Dick reaches back for something on it. He tosses it across the room to him before Jason can ask.

Jason turns it over in his hands. It's small, no longer than the tip of his finger, thin and flat and looking like something he'd find in Roy's pile of tech. It's made up of plastic and metal. Some type of cartridge, maybe.

"Catwoman planted that in your helmet."

"Sleeping gas?" He guesses, feeling a wry smile breaking across his face because of course it is. Where was she five days ago when he would've killed to be drugged into a nineteen-hour dreamless sleep. He wonders when she managed to attach it and that night he shot up Roy's walls comes to mind. It's almost comforting in a way, finding out he wasn't completely crazy, jumping at shadows that did indeed exist.

"Yeah, actually," Dick says. "Concentrated specially. She says it was only used twice but who knows. It's probably reached its limit because she came back for it last night, said she didn't want to leave a rogue tracker attached to you. I'd find that more endearing if she hadn't put it there in the first place." A short breath, and a long exhale. Jason looks up from his hands to find Dick looking back. His face has a worried pinched, and he looks like he's contemplating his next words. "Are you doing okay, Jay?" He asks. "I know you haven't been sleeping well since…for the last few days at least. Barring Selina's thing, but that really shouldn't have knocked you out as long as you were out."

There's a denial on Jason's tongue, ready to deflect and change the subject, but he knows Dick won't give up and he doesn't have the energy to put up walls that will just be broken down. "I have it under control," is what comes out. Dick raises an eyebrow. "Mostly," he adds.

"Nightmares?"

Jason nods, not meeting his eyes. He realizes he moved into a defensive posture at some point, slumped back in the swivel chair, shoulders tight and arms crossed at his chest. He makes himself uncross and sit up. Open body language. Calm and in control. He can feel Dick's eyes on him as he makes his body stop projecting the nerves he feels. "They're getting better, really. You don't need to worry so much about me."

Dick huffs a laugh.

It's not even a lie, though. He has been getting better. At least, it hasn't gotten worst and he's working on it. It's been a rough week but he's been creating a routine before bed, making tea, even started reading again. His brain registered at some point that crashing on Roy's couch with no Roy around wasn't the best, mentally, like he's creeping around a space that's not his, and he's been apartment hunting.

"Did they start—," Dick says, shaking his head. Another sigh. "I'm supposed to talk to you—there's been some missed movements coming out of Crime Alley…Tim seems to think that you could use some help based on the last week, and…I'm honestly inclined to agree." He says it like it pains him. One of Dick's knees is bouncing quickly and the movement catches Jason's eye, the sharp muscles of his calf decidedly distracting if not for what Dick was saying. Dick stops the movement when he catches Jason looking.

"What do you mean by…help?"

He doesn't know whether to be angry or offended or embarrassed. Jason's face must be doing something because Dick's quick to continue, "I mean help with patrol, on a temporary basis. No loitering around your territory, only answering to active crimes, directed by Barbara. Whenever and however much you think you need. It's doesn't have to be a blanket decision either, Jay."

A long exhale, from Jason this time. He stares at his bare feet, pale against the rug, trying to think through a jumble of emotion. It's a testament to how tired he is that he's even considering it. He honestly could go back to bed, despite having just slept for _nineteen fucking hours_ , the idea of having to don his helmet and go out into the cold to face Thomas and the shambles of his operation-gone-wrong not something he feels up to tonight.

"And you think I should." It comes out kind of pointed, not quite a question, but he's still curious what Dick will say, especially given that the idea of _helping him_ has stemmed from his replacement, who he's pretty sure broke rank last night to run around Jason’s part of the city. He's can't quite see what the angle is here besides maybe chipping away at his side of Bruce's agreement.

"Jay," Dick says, waiting for Jason to meet his eyes. Jason gives in, meets his gaze. Dick's leaning forward, elbow resting on his knees, looking right at him. "It's your choice," Dick says. "I'm not trying to persuade you one way or another. I don't expect you let Red Robin run around freely. But there's Steph, or Cassie, or even me. Only if you want." Dick considers him, then adds, "I think it would give you some time to catch your breath without worrying about Gotham."

"And if I say no?"

"That's fine too, really. We'll manage."

Jason's can't help but be skeptical because there's got to be an ultimatum here somewhere. "You're not worried about your greater duty to fight Gotham's underworld, or whatever?”

That makes Dick laugh, once, a short bark. "Jason," he says, sounding amused. "I really don't give a damn. We pick up the pieces of Gotham because someone has to, and we help where we can, but I'm no Batman. I'm too selfish." He's sobers a bit. "Or, I'm a different kind of selfish. I care about you and my family more than my duty to Gotham. I do everything I can for this city but I won't at the expense of the people I lo—that I care about."

Jason doesn't say anything to that, thinking about what Dick's saying. He doesn't know what to do with the fact that Dick would choose him over the good of the city, at least to a degree. He doesn't know what he was expecting. He knows Dick's not like Bruce, that they have their own disagreements, but he forgets sometimes that there can be room for something besides Gotham when you're dealing with Batman-type things.

"If you don't want anyone in your turf, that's really fine," Dick repeats, trying to convince him. "Any problem of overlooked crime might be moot in a week, anyway, when B and Damian get back from China. More people to share the workload, etcetera." 

Jason rubs his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. He didn't know Bruce was in China. It makes him feel a little better about considering help, knowing it's not secretly coming from Bruce in some weird roundabout manipulation with whatever defensibly good intentions he has.

"You can think about it—"

"Black Bat can. . . for tonight." Jason glances up at Dick, who's doing his best to be neutral. "That's Cassie, right? She was the one there earlier?"

"Yeah, yes, that was her."

"Hell of a driver."

Dick cracks a smile. "I'll be telling her you said that," he says. "You sure?"

"I can always change my mind, right?" It comes out more a question than he intends, voice tense to his own ears, the unspoken _as long as Batman lets me keep Crime Alley_ bleeding through.

"Right," Dick confirms. At least he believes it, which is more of a comfort than Jason thought it would be. Dick's looking for his phone on the couch, twisting around to run a hand along under the piles of pillows on either side of him. Jason doesn't know how he loses it so quickly; he just had it to order Thai. Then again, he doesn't know where his own phone ended up. Probably wherever his helmet did.

Dick finds his phone, holding it up for Jason in triumph. "I'll let Barbara know now," he says, unlocking the screen. "The food should be here in about twenty minutes." He holds his phone to is ear as it rings. Jason must look as lost as he feels because Dick gives him a small smile and says, "The bathroom's upstairs if you want to take a shower before it gets here."

Jason knows he's giving him an escape so he can regroup after this conversation, after facing Dick for the first time after Jason bugged out. He's not ready for round two of this conversation yet. He takes the offered escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter :)
> 
> Thank for reading!! And for all your lovely comments <33


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jay—" he starts, then seems to change his mind. He sighs heavily this time. “Okay. Then...” he says like he’s testing the word, like he’s willing to humor him for a moment. “Then...why have you been avoiding me?” 
> 
> Fuck, he _didn't want to have this conversation_. He's back to staring hard into his drink, holding it way too tight. He might throw up. Or maybe cry, Christ. He knows it's not fair to expect but he still wishes Dick would just _get it_.
> 
> Dick waits, letting the silence work for him as Jason tries to think what to say. There's a long stretch of nothing but Jason's quiet panic.
> 
> "I just…remembered some stuff. I don’t want to do it again." That's about all the explanation Jason can get out, all he can offer. He knows he's being cagey and vague, but he already feels scraped raw. It's like tipping over the first domino, knowing that the chain reaction has started and he has to sit here in this stupid apartment while all the dominoes fall down in a row, each bigger than the last until there's nothing left but a fucking mess.

Jason sits on the ledge of the bathtub and breathes for what feels like forever.

He's hiding in the guest bathroom of his replacement's Bruce-funded getaway home while Dick waits for him downstairs. He's letting bats into Crime Alley tonight. He's about to eat fucking Thai food with Dick after giving him the cold shoulder for over a week.

(He's not counting the post-Alfred's dinner text; it'd be fucking rude not to thank someone who dropped off Alfred's cooking—unthinkable even—but Jason hasn't listened to the other dozen voicemails Dick left him. Didn't want to test his own resolve. )

He still isn't ready to give stilted answers to the questions he knows are coming. He didn't want to do this. Still doesn't. Doesn't know how to extricate himself from Dick without explanation like he's been trying to. The window calls to him again and no one can blame him for briefly rethinking an escape, barefoot or not, but it's really a fleeting thought with no teeth. This situation with Dick was always bound to catch up with him.

He does eventually turn the water on to shower because he needs it. Strips efficiently and climbs in, letting the water wash his stale sweat away, pouring a liberal amount of the too-expensive soap that smells like tea tree oil and pine, then letting that wash away too.

He stands there and breathes in the steam until a calm sort of detachment settles over him, replacing the buzzing under his skin and making his head feels like it's floating five feet above the rest of his body. It's not entirely pleasant but it's better than panic he knows wants to bubble up and Jason hopes he can hold onto it.

He doesn't linger too much, toweling off and creeping across the hall to dress in his own sweats and t-shirt still folded at the end of the bed. His mouth still tastes foul from retching out of back of the Batmobile in front of both Dick _and_ his replacement—something that still makes him burn with something like embarrassment if he lets himself think about it. He searches the bathroom drawers until he finds a packaged toothbrush and busies himself with scrubbing the taste from his tongue.

He might be stalling.

When he finally makes his way downstairs Dick already has the food laid out, open containers spread across the large ottoman in the living room. Dick himself has a plate piled high with food, held with one hand at his chest while he lounges back in the corner section of the couch. He's all smiles again, uncomplicated and genuine as opposed to the polite ones he's used for strangers or the hungry one he's turned on Jason when he's feeling frisky.

Jason's own returning smile feels more like a stiff grimace, nerves returning full force. Dick seems unfazed.

"There's a plate for you." Dick gestures with the plastic fork in his hand to an empty ceramic plate that's been placed among the containers.

"Thanks," Jason manages. "For the food," he adds. God he's being weird, he knows he's being weird. He makes himself take the steps to the ottoman, resists looking at Dick while he works on making a plate. Pad Thai, rice, and three types of curry.

"Anytime," Dick says easily. "You mind if I throw on a movie? I'm sick of watching the news."

It doesn't seem like something that needs his opinion, but Jason still says, "Um, okay."

Dick thumbs through the movie selections and Jason deliberates for a moment before making himself sit on the couch, at the far end but closer than the swivel chair. Dick lands on some dumb buddy comedy movie and the familiar sound of the movie production music intro starts to play over the speakers.

"What did Selina want?" Jason asks before Dick can take control of his own line of questioning, even if they both know Jason's capable of finding out on his own.

Dick hums. "She wouldn't say outright, but we think it has to do with the small jail outbreak in Crime Alley the other night. Tim's looking into it." And that effectively cuts off that line of questioning.

A beat of silence is filled by the movie's opening sequence, and Dick's fork quietly taps against his plate to the beat of the hip-hop music as two cops banter over the radio amidst a car chase on screen. One of the guys holds onto the top of said car while his partner and the perp shoot at each other from their car windows. 

"Who ended up with the guns?" Jason asks.

"Oh," Dick says, sounding a little sheepish now. "The GCPD. I can get the an actual copy of the report for you tomorrow."

Another long stretch of dead conversation between them.

"Where's my phone?"

"I'll go grab it for you if you promise to relax and eat your food," he says.

"I'm not—" he protests, because he's not what? Actively following up on vigilante work after he agreed to take a night off? Clearly trying to avoid other topics of conversation?

"I'm just teasing you" Dick says with amusement, setting aside his plate to get up and fetch Jason's phone from the other room. He points at Jason's plate as he passes. "But really, eat."

Jason relents and takes a bite. It's delicious.

Dick comes back with phone outstretched and Jason's helmet tucked under an arm. "Someone named Thomas called," Dick informs him. "A lot."

"Jealous much?" Jason says without thinking, mouth half full, then immediately berates himself because goddamn his where is his last brain cell. He should not be flirting on any level when it's just going to encourage Dick.

Dick just snorts. Jason takes both proffered items, carefully setting his helmet on the floor by his feet, and sure enough there's a lot of missed calls from Thomas. Dick settles back into his couch corner.

Jason busies himself writing out an a text to Thomas that says _I'm alive_ , _can't talk right now, see you tomorrow_. Then he thumbs through his phone, halfheartedly taking bites of food, trying to look busy while part of him waits tensely for Dick to start drilling him about the other night.

Instead, Dick turns the volume up and they just…sit, and eat, and pretend to watch the movie. Or at least Jason pretends because Dick seems to snort or laugh at all the right times. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting _exactly_ , but it wasn't for Dick to keep a perfectly pleasant distance. Jason honestly thought Dick'd be all over him. Verbally, that is. He was ready for the probing questions. Or at least he was bracing for them and ready to shove down panic and bolt if necessary. But there's nothing—what was the word Roy's pamphlet used? T _riggered_. There's nothing triggering about sitting here. Jason eats, and Dick laughs, and Jason finds himself slowly relaxing as he finishes his food.

It's actually nice. The movie is halfway over and Jason finds himself huffing in amusement at something on screen, the edges of his mouth tugging up into a smile. He automatically glances over at Dick to see if he thought it was funny and Dick is already looking back at him with his own beaming smile until Jason looks away first, feeling flushed. It's truly a dumb movie, but Jason's starting to think he's the one with bad taste because he's enjoying it. He absolutely blames Roy for programming him into liking dumb shit.

He wonders when Roy will be back, or if he'll decide to come back to Gotham at all. He'll come back for his stuff of course, but he might be done with his time in the city by the time that rolls around.

It makes him wonder if Dick would still want to eat takeout and hangout like this, after he's realized Jason is done hooking up with him. Jason knows it's wishful thinking as soon the thought crosses his mind.

He can't say he's sad, exactly, that he's going to lose this too—especially because he's been actively avoiding Dick anyway—but he's not exactly looking forward to a complete future of empty apartments and tv dinners alone. Fuck, maybe he is a little sad about it. It's not like there's much he can do about it. He tries not to think about it, instead just appreciating the passing feeling of easy company and a full stomach and a comfortable surface for his tired body.

The movie eventually ends and neither Dick and Jason budge from their respective couch corners as the credits start to roll. Jason thinks about getting up to leave, to get out of Dick's hair before either one of them can ruin a perfectly fine evening. Neither of them has broached the subject of their tragic-level sexcapade, and it feels like a firm possibility that Jason can escape it for another day.

Still, no part of him feels like moving, and Dick must feel the same because they both sit there staring at the credits for way too long.

Dick ends up getting up first, levering himself out of the cushions to pad into the kitchen, his dirty plate in hand. Jason hears him rinse it and the sound of a dishwasher opening and closing.

"Do you want something to drink?" Dick calls back.

He should say no and leave. Stop dragging out what's probably their last evening like this. "What do you have?" Jason asks.

Some clinking of glass bottles shifting against each other. "Hmm. Bourbon, Vodka, Rum, Peach Schnapps. All of the wines."

Jason sits up, upper half twisted around to look at the dining area behind his section of the couch, and sees Dick crouched in front of the open cupboard of a small bar table against the far wall. "We raiding Timbo's alcohol stash?" Jason asks, surprised Timothy Drake has an alcohol stash. "Isn't the kid, like, fifteen?"

Dick barks a laugh like Jason made a great joke. "Seventeen, actually," he corrects, still sounding extremely pleased. "But still too young to drink. Most of this was probably here before, but it can't hurt to take it off his hands. Don't want him to pick up Bruce's habits now, do we?" Dick pulls a couple of bottles out, stands and turns to set them gently on the kitchen island, then goes back for a shaker.

"You know that I'm technically too young to drink," Jason reminds him, not that it's ever stopped him.

Dick gives him a look, returning to the counter with shaker in hand. "This is hardly the most illegal thing you've done."

That cracks a surprised laugh from Jason. "Yeah, okay, I really don't have an argument to that."

"Is that a yes to that drink then?" Dick tips a bottle towards him with a suggestive eyebrow movement.

"Yeah okay, sure," Jason relents, then before Dick can ask what he wants, "Surprise me." He knows whatever Dick makes will be good because apparently Dick was a bar-tender at one point for a month-long undercover GCPD bust of all things. 

Dick gets ice from the freezer and cuts fruit and pours and shakes. Jason gets up and brings his own plate over to the sink, then goes back to clear the half-empty takeout containers, replacing their lids and stacking them in the fridge. As soon as he's done, Dick hands him a short glass of something clear with lime slices and Jason takes it, situating himself in a lean against the back of the couch, lightly perched on its frame right where the kitchen bleeds into the small dining area. As long as Dick doesn't move it leaves the kitchen island between the two of them.

It looks like Dick's made himself some weird mix of ice, La Croix, peach schnapps, and juice—also with limes. He even found a straw and a tacky little drink umbrella that sits at the edge of his drink. Dick takes a single sip from his straw before going to rinse the shaker and put the bottles away.

"So is Roy actually in space?" asks Dick, carefully shifting the bottles in the bar table to make room for his selections.

"Mmm-hmm," Jason hums over the rim of his glass. "Kori," he says by way of explanation.

"Ah. I take it that's why you're moving?"

"More or less." He doesn't say that it's partially because he doesn't want to have to explain the new bullet holes in the wall to Roy, assuming Roy does come back to stay. He casts about for a new topic. "Did you call out from work today?" The _for me_ is more heavily implied than he intended. Jason doesn't know if he'd like the answer to be yes or not, but it's too late to take it back.

"Oooh," Dick says, mock bashful, sauntering back to the counter. He takes a long pull of his fruity disaster drink before saying, "This is the part where I tell you I'm bad boyfriend material because no I did not. I ended up going in around noon. _But_ , I did leave you a note and some water, and you hadn't even twitched by the time I came back."

He doesn't know how that makes him feel. Relieved, partly—he doesn't want to deal with the guilt of ditch-dumping Dick if Dick had just taken an entire day off work just to watch him sleep. But on the other hand, Dick took a half-day. Left him water which he gracefully knocked over earlier. He didn't notice the note, but still.

He can see the _bad boyfriend_ comment as the conversation bait it is, ripe and dangling, but he can't make himself take it. He can see it playing out. Jason would roll his eyes and say _Oh, we're boyfriends now, are we?_ And Dick would say light and teasingly but with total sincerity _Do you want to be?_ And Jason would have no fucking answer because he might want to if he let himself think about it—(maybe)—but it doesn't matter because he _can't_ , and saying " _yes, but no"_ is fucking unhelpful so he would just end up saying _no_. Or just nothing at all. And then Dick would either start prying or worse, he'd play it off as joke so Jason wouldn't be uncomfortable.

Yeah, no.

He takes a deep breath, sips at his drink. It's like Dick is trying to make this more difficult for him.

"Oh. Well, thanks for the water. And, for, you know, this." He gestures with his drink to the room at large without looking at Dick. God, he's back to being weird. It's probably really time to go now. 

"Yeah, of course, Jay," Dick says, sounding a little puzzled, but genuine enough.

They sip their drinks for a moment. Jason's just trying to think up a good reason to excuse himself in the next couple minutes when Dick lets out a heavy sigh, and _shit_ , he can feel the energy in the room shift and _this_ is what he's been avoiding. Jason stares hard into his drink as panic crawls up his throat.

"I'm not sure if you listened to my voicemails," Dick starts, speaking a little hesitantly.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He feels himself freeze up with each word and something hot like nerves and guilt and shame make his stomach drop. "Sorry," he blurts out, interrupting Dick.

Dick stares at him for a moment. Jason bites his tongue on a second sorry.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Jay. I'm the one who's sorry."

"But you didn't do anything."

Dick frowns at him, incredulous and confused, a mirror of Jason's own face he's sure. Then Dick goes and says, "I thought I hurt you."

"What." Because _what_.

"What?"

They stare at each other.

Fuck if Dick thinks he hurt Jason, does he think that the past week has been Jason being mad at him? Ignoring him in retribution? Well no wonder it wasn't working. Instead of correctly assuming _wow, Jason is fucked up_ , Dick was there thinking _wow,_ I _fucked things up_. Jesus Christ how could he forget about Dick's martyr complex.

He can't let Dick think it was his fault when it was Jason's own fault. Or, at least Jason's _past's_ fault, he privately concedes. Dick was great, it was Jason’s brain that decided that sex meant reliving fuzzy, painful memories.

Jason forces himself to breathe and open his mouth and push heavy words out from where the get stuck in his throat. "It wasn’t you. Well, not exactly," Jason says when Dick looks ready to protest. Jason takes another breath and pushes on. "I just, it was just the way I reacted I guess. Roy said you were pretty spooked. So...sorry about that."

Dick kind of laughs at that but it’s not bright and happy. It’s short and sharp like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. The sound puts Jason on edge, bristling despite himself, and Dick must notice because he takes a moment to take several deep breaths of his own.

"Jay—" he starts, then seems to change his mind. He sighs heavily this time. “Okay. Then...” he says like he’s testing the word, like he’s willing to humor him for a moment. “Then...why have you been avoiding me?” 

Fuck, he _didn't want to have this conversation_. He's back to staring hard into his drink, holding it way too tight. He might throw up. Or maybe cry, Christ. He knows it's not fair to expect but he still wishes Dick would just _get it_.

Dick waits, letting the silence work for him as Jason tries to think what to say. There's a long stretch of nothing but Jason's quiet panic.

"I just…remembered some stuff. I don’t want to do it again." That's about all the explanation Jason can get out, all he can offer. He knows he's being cagey and vague, but he already feels scraped raw. It's like tipping over the first domino, knowing that the chain reaction has started and he has to sit here in this stupid apartment while all the dominoes fall down in a row, each bigger than the last until there's nothing left but a fucking mess.

Dick doesn't let it go, brow furrowed, drink forgotten. "Can you tell me what you mean by that, exactly?"

"You know what I mean." Jason says with a clipped tone, frustration leaking out because Dick _has_ to know what he's saying because he's not a _fucking idiot_. "I can't do that again," Jason repeats, enunciating every syllable through clenched teeth. 

"I just want to make sure I understand, Jason. We're talking about sex, right?"

"I didn't think I had to _spell it out for you_."

"So, you're avoiding me because you don't want to have sex again?" Dick says it like he's asking a math question, calmly confirming that the numbers add up. The fact that he's not rising to meet Jason's harsh tone is all the more infuriating.

"Yes, are you fucking thick?" He's practically growling, frustration funneling into anger, Dick the only standing target. "I don't want to do that again!"

"I mean, okay," Dick agrees too easily, still regarding him with searching eyes. Dick's still not _getting it_.

" _So you don't need to come around anymore_ ," Jason states.

Dick's eyes finally narrow at that, mouth agape stupidly. Jason can see Dick finally understands, the way he's staring dumbly at him, and Jason doesn't feel any better for it. Dick will leave him alone now, which is what has to happen.

Jason knocks back the rest of his drink, pushing away from the back of the couch to leave. He needs to find his jacket and boots, goes to put his glass on the edge of the counter opposite Dick when Dick finally realizes Jason is mid-retreat.

"Hey, _no_." Dick's voice is deep and firm, demanding in a way that makes Jason stop automatically, one hand still on his glass. He can see the front door at the end of the entryway hall.

"No," Dick says again, "it's my turn. Sit down." The tone sends a small shivering feeling up Jason's spine, which he refuses to examine further (because look where that got them last time). He still hesitates, his retreat halted but not abandoned. After a long inhale and a longer exhale, Dick's voice turns soft. "Please, sit. Stay."

Jason sighs to himself and turns toward Dick because he's truly fucking weak, pulling out one of the island barstools to sit directly across the counter from Dick. He doesn't know what Dick has to say but if he wants to yell at Jason for breaking up with him (in the loosest terms) then Jason figures he probably owes Dick that at least. For the painfully lousy lay as well as being a headache for Dick, causing a week of unwarranted worry.

Dick's leaning forward, hands on the countertop. Jason fidgets in his seat and tells himself to keep it together until he can get out of there.

"Okay,” Dick starts. “So you're either saying," he speaks slowly, like he’s thinking out loud. “You’re either saying that you only hung around me because you wanted sex, and now that you don't want that, you don't want to see me or talk to me, which— _ouch_ —but you know, _okay_. I can navigate that." Dick is looking intently at Jason. " _Or_ —and I suspect this closer to the truth—you think that _I_ only hung around because I wanted or expected sex from _you_."

Something hot spreads through Jason's chest and he looks away, gaze catching on the dumb umbrella in Dick's drink. 

"Which is _unacceptable_ ," Dick says with pointed annunciation, startling Jason into looking up at him. "Jason, I don't _care_ if you don't want to have sex. I care about _you_. We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

That is…not anything close to what Jason was expecting to hear. He's not sure he's even hearing Dick correctly, let alone believes him. The disbelief must show on his face because Dick repeats the sentiment.

"I'm happy doing whatever you want. Nothing more," Dick says.

"But…"

"But what?"

"You're…you," Jason finishes lamely.

"You mean that I'm a tabloid-splash sex fiend, incapable of keeping my hands and dick to myself," Dick translates with a hint of contempt, though it's clearly aimed at someone else.

"…yeah."

Dick sighs.

"Jay, I'm very serious when I say I don't need to have sex with you to want to spend time with you. Ever, if that's what you want. I still want to see you. I'd actually like to date you. Like, officially." He shrugs a little at that and that one movement makes Jason realizes that Dick is nervous about this conversation too, as much as Dick does nerves at least.

Jason…has no fucking idea what he wants, assuming he believes Dick is just fine with a sexless life. Jason's gut-reaction is that he might want to date, heavy emphasis on _might_. Now that it's a real choice being offered up, he realizes he hasn't really thought through any of the contingencies. Is dating Dick different from what they've already been doing? Will it give Bruce leverage over him? Christ, he doesn't know how they got to this point and he's definitely feeling the emotional whiplash of the entire evening catch up to him, leaving him more than a little dazed. Guns and masks are so much easier than this.

"Jason?"

Jason's attention is pulled back to Dick, who's looking at him a little concerned. Right. Answer him.

"I…" His voice catches, mouth dry. "Maybe?" It comes out breathy and strangled, helpless sounding in a way Jason might be embarrassed by in front of anyone else.

"Oh, hey, no, that's fine. I didn't mean— You don't have to make any decisions right now. I just wanted to be clear about what I want. No more confusion." Dick gives him a half-smile.

Jason's nods to indicate his understanding, still stiff in his chair, but also sagging somehow, the weight of want and denial and internal uncertainty too much for the day he's had. The week he's had. His gaze is caught on that little paper umbrella again, thinking about Dick _being happy doing whatever Jason wants_. He doesn't know _what_ he wants, but he knows it's not a life where he can't hang out with one of the only people he likes.

He thinks he wants to go back to sleep and let future-Jason figure it out. Present-Jason is tired. He wants to lay down and drift back to when he and Dick just trash talked and ate street meat and made out sometimes.

Is that dating?

"Yeah, I think you're all done for tonight." Dick snorts fondly, and Jason looks back up to see a small smile dancing on Dick's lips, realizing he zoned out again. "Will you stay?" Dick asks it with casual curiosity but with enough hope to tell Jason he wants him to stay. Jason finds himself nodding yes, which is just as well. He feels absolutely drained, the driving urge to run snuffed out by Dick's revelations and general presence.

"Okay, honey, that's perfect." Dick says, then apropos nothing asks, "Can I touch you?"

"I don't," Jason says, not sure what he doesn't, then nods stiffly. A contradiction, but Dick moves around the counter to approach him, eyes searching Jason's face, gauging his answer for him. Jason can feel his heartbeat quicken as he turns in his seat toward Dick and Dick is reaching out, cataloging his movements like Jason's going to stop him, giving him time to if he wants to. And then Dick's hands are sliding around him, and Dick's stepping into his space so he can fold him into a proper hug against his body.

It's a bit awkward with Jason still sitting and Dick hunched over him, but Jason feels himself fucking melt. He doesn't let himself think about it, just tucks his head into Dick's chest and lets Dick hold him together while he closes his eyes and breathes.

"Okay?"

"Hm." Jason responds, busy soaking up the feeling of Dick pressed against him, like warmth seeping into his bones. He can feel the resultant repressed laughter vibrate through Dick's chest against his cheek. After a long moment Jason brings his own arms up around Dick's waist and hugs him back.

They must make a picture, two dudes hugging it out this ungodly hour like one of them is in crisis. There's the beginning of a joke here somewhere, something like: a _teenage crime lord and vigilante cop walk into their adoptive father's brownstone to cuddle…_

"I missed you, Jaybird." Dick's words are muffled again the top of Jason's head where Dick's lips are pressed. Jason hums.

They stay like that for long time. Long enough for Jason to zone out into a half-doze, Dick swaying them a little. Dick breaks his reverie with, "You smell good."

"I smell like rich people soap," Jason's voice is muffled against Dick's t-shirt.

"You are rich people."

Jason hums again, not wanting to argue family semantics.

"Alright, sleeping beauty, c'mon," Dick says eventually. He pulls him up and Jason lets him lead him back to the couch by the hand where he flops down onto the cushions before Dick can claim a spot, laying down and slowly stretching into a lazy sprawl while Dick goes back to flip off most of the kitchen lights. Dick comes back to sit in his corner by Jason's head, reaching for the remote because apparently tonight needs two hard conversations and two movies to round it out. Dick picks something he calls a classic, some animated comedy that Jason never got around to watching as a kid.

Jason scoots himself up so he can use Dick's thigh as a cushion. He doesn't think about it, just let's himself do it in the moment because he can and he wants to, at least right now. He still doesn't know what _happy doing whatever you want_ will entail. Not sure he trusts that to remain the case. But he trusts Dick, enough. He trusts Dick enough. More than anyone else. Besides Roy, maybe.

Dick starts to card through Jason's hair with his fingers and Jason hums to let him know he doesn't mind.

The minutes tick by and the movie fills the silence for them. Even if it didn’t, the silence would probably be fine now; all the hard, unspoken tension between them has dissipated for the moment. They don’t have to do anything or decide anything right now.

When Jason's body is relaxed and limp from Dick's repetitive motions and his is mind lethargic enough to not stop him, he says, "Dick?"

"Yeah?" Dick traces the tip of Jason's ear with a finger.

"How did you not bring that stuff up earlier?" He's honestly just curious how blabber-mouth Grayson managed to sit through an entire movie without bringing it up.

"I wasn't going to bring it up at all," he confesses, fingers now playing with the hairs on Jason's nape. "I thought you could use a night off and I didn't want to be a stressor tonight. Well, more of a stressor," he amends.

"Hmm, yeah, if you could stop stressing me out that'd be great." Jason shifts and wriggles further into his spot, getting even more comfortable.

"Yeah, well, I'll try," Dick chuckles to himself, then goes back to petting Jason's hair when Jason stops moving.

The feeling of Dick's hands in his hair gradually expands, fingers quietly exploring the sensitive skin of Jason's neck and then breaching out across his shoulder and back only to retreat and start again. Jason hadn't realized how much he missed being touched like this, and whatever he decides he wants them to be, he thinks he'd like to keep this part.

The movie plays on, but Jason shuts his eyes. He falls asleep like that, the feeling of Dick's hands on his body lulling him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That chapter took forever. I had to move across the country and do life things, and this chapter started out way more angsty but then I wanted something fluffy by the time I could come back to it so here we are :)
> 
> -Talking is hard for Jason, but com'n Jay we know what you want  
> -Good job, Dick, proud of you buddy  
> -Jason is definitely avoiding sex out of fear and trauma, which is totally valid, but not a solid decision he's weighed out for himself. He's not ready to throw himself into it, but he no doubt will at some point with some bumps in the road, even with Dick trying to be the patient angel he is  
> -I've noticed the boys been having a lot of conversations in the kitchen but hey, they say it's the heart of the house.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason can feel Dick startle but then immediately relax, the thigh where his face is pillowed tightening and then easing. "Jesus Tim, use the front door, would ya?" Dick laughs a little, his voice coming from somewhere above Jason, raspy from sleep.
> 
> Jason opens his eyes to find sunlight streaming into the living room and Tim standing in the corner by the window, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, gripping the strap of a backpack at his shoulder.
> 
> He's still laying on the couch in the brownstone, head in Dick's lap.

Jason can feel Dick startle but then immediately relax, the thigh where his face is pillowed tightening and then easing. "Jesus Tim, use the front door, would ya?" Dick laughs a little, his voice coming from somewhere above Jason, raspy from sleep.

Jason opens his eyes to find sunlight streaming into the living room and Tim standing in the corner by the window, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, gripping the strap of a backpack at his shoulder.

He's still laying on the couch in the brownstone, head in Dick's lap.

"Uh, sorry. I didn't know you guys were still here." Tim shifts a little, not moving away from the corner.

"Don't worry about it," Dick says, followed by a yawn and a half-stretch. The movement removes Dick's arm from where it was resting on Jason's side—a no-doubt strategic choice that frees Jason to move away if he wants. Dick is nothing if a keen observer and Jason can feel the tension in his own body.

He knows what this probably looks like to an outsider but he stays put, glaring defiantly at Tim, daring him to say something.

"I'll just…go." Tim says, but he doesn't actually leave, just shuffles sideways and dips into a room off the living room, probably an office or something.

Dick pinches his arm. "You know I love your steely looks, but I think you're making Tim nervous."

Jason sighs, because his replacement did let him crash here and fuck if he's being an ass right now. It might be because he actually slept well for once but he finds that he's somehow not too mad about Tim—and Dick _and_ Cass—crashing into Crime Alley; it was going to be a clusterfuck either way.

Still, he doesn't want to be a topic of conversation at the Wayne household more than he already knows he is, and a good glare discourages gossip in his experience.

He scrubs a hand over his face then pushes himself up so he's not literally laying on Dick, taking a second to reorient himself in his spot on the couch next to Dick. "I should probably head out," he says.

"Sure," Dick says easily.

Jason sighs again, thinking about the day ahead of him.

Dick chuckles at him, which earns him a side eye.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Dick says innocently, bringing a hand up to toy with the sleep-flattened hair on one side of Jason's head. "You're just cute in the morning."

"Oh fuck off," Jason says, half-embarrassed.

"I mean it!" Dick laughs.

"Yeah okay, I'm leaving now," he says, but doesn't make any move to stand.

"So grumpy too, first thing in the morning."

"I'm actually leaving now." This time he does stand up to leave.

Dick grabs his hand before he can get far and pulls him back down, chuckling when Jason huffs, moving his knees under him on the couch in one graceful move as he boxes Jason in, a hand on the back of the couch above Jason's shoulder. It's a position that means Jason has to look up at his face, stupidly beautiful with his blue eyes and playful smirk. Dick’s other hand hasn't let go of Jason's, and Dick gives it a squeeze. "Hey, I'm glad you stayed," he says in that casual-sincere way he somehow manages to pull off.

"Yeah. Me too," Jason says, and finds that he means it.

Dick's lips are curled up in a soft grin and there's a beat where he thinks Dick is going to try to kiss him but all Jason can think about is Tim in the other room. It must be obvious because Dick gives his hand another squeeze then lets him go, getting up himself before it can become an awkward thing.

Dick goes and pulls out Jason's boots and jacket from a closet in the front hallway, as well as a duffel which apparently has more clothes from his stuff at Roy's. Dick dips into the room off the living room—presumably to talk to his replacement—while Jason changes in the bathroom upstairs, gathering the clothes he left on the floor the previous night and stuffing them in the duffel.

He calls a cab and is putting on his shoes back downstairs in the entryway hall when Dick and Tim come out into the living room. Tim gives Jason a little wave on his way to the kitchen, and Jason gives him a nod.

(Look, he can be amicable sometimes.)

Jason grabs his helmet and Dick walks him to the door. He can feel an expectant tension between them and it spikes when Jason turns to say goodbye. He avoids eye contact for a second, unsure what the right move is here, and when he does look up Dick looks amused at him, quirking an eyebrow, the epitome of casual even as he takes his hands out of his pockets.

He thinks Dick might try to kiss him for real this time which for some stupid reason still makes Jason feel stiff. He can hear the clink of a some dish being set on the counter in the other room. Jason ends up being the one to cross the distance, bringing a hand up to the side of Dick's face, keeping Dick's head still so he can press a quick kiss to Dick's other cheek, pulling away just as quickly.

It's stupidly chaste and juvenile and he can feel the blush on his face—because is he _twelve_?—but Dick looks happy, looking at him with that intense fondness he realizes he's been craving.

"I'll keep in touch," Jason says, cognizant of the ears in the house.

"Please do."

—

The next three days are hellish with trying to clean up the mafia mess, mostly because he's decided to shift the entire hierarchy of responsibilities in his operations. 

Being seen with the bats had turned out to be a bigger headache than he anticipated; there's rampant rumors going around that he's been paid off by the bats to fight off other gangs, and opposite rumors that _he's_ paying the off the bats to let him run his own crime syndicate.

He doesn't bother to correct the rumors, either way. There's more than enough people upset about both among the underground circles—even being associated with Batman is enough to dry up any trust he had with a lot of his fringe contacts.

(He knows something like this was bound to happen eventually, what with him hanging around Nightwing so many nights.)

In practice this means he needs to lay low in his regular operations and double down on the streets, creating distance from the (soon-to-be) self-sustaining functions while reinforcing his well-earned reputation. The no kill thing has seems to have finally been noticed so he hits fast and hard. If anyone thinks he’s not a threat they’re going to be surprised.

It's just good PR, really: building back trust and providing incentive, albeit in the form of violence and fear but whatever works.

It doesn't take long to decide to have Thomas take over transport and distribution: acquiring assets, protecting assets, and moving assets to buyers. It's obvious that Thomas is surprised when Jason waltzes into Club Casanova after leaving the brownstone to tell him he's being promoted, probably expecting a much different meeting if his wary expression and lack of entourage was any indicator.

When he asks why, Jason tells him point blank that he trusts Thomas to watch his own back and stick up for the dozen or so of his guys that come in and out of the club. It's a limited trust—he's not letting him have free reign—but it's something that ties Thomas to their aligned goals. He's less likely to take risks, like selling him out to the mafia. It doesn't hurt that he also doesn't have any personal interest in starting an all-out gang war. He's got something to fight for beyond money, which is more than can be said of Warren, whose motivations lead with money. (Red Hood didn't instill enough fear for the pay, apparently. A lesson learned for future hires.)

Jason will maintain control of their pharmaceutical investments, not trusting anyone to make sure drugs don't touch kids, or to make sure the stuff is at least clean.

As for Warren, he had decided his lot was better cast with the Italian mafia. If he already wasn't in the hospital from Jason's bullets and slated for jail he'd be Jason's problem to knock off. A couple months ago he'd have killed Warren and thrown him into the river without a beat. These days he has to hope a couple of broken femurs and a shattered jaw will deter someone else from trying to nab half a million dollars' worth of weapons from him again.

Jason waits for Warren's betrayal to ignite the feeling of glorious anger, but he just feels tired. It's exhausting, spending his time trying to get Thomas up to speed and things running smoothly while Red Hood takes back his full night shifts. He spends the nights literally beating back encroaching gangs, several smaller groups slithering out, either for revenge or just opportunists of unrest. Relying on Black Bat or someone else to come into Crime Alley is definitely not going to help the big picture at the moment, though it was admittedly nice to have the option for a night.

One upside is that he and Dick are talking again. Mostly texting, but it's a consistent comfort Jason hadn't realized he missed until he got it back. They haven't talked about _them_ since last time, but Dick hasn't put any pressure on him to and when his own uncertainties bubble up he just reminds himself there's no rush. Dick's already told him he's not going anywhere. He thinks they're both happy just speaking again for now.

Dick's swamped at work too, making sure the Italian guys are all properly charged with what they can make stick, and making sure the confiscated weapons make it into proper facilities—they both know you can't trust all the officers in Gotham, and bribes are always being offered.

Maybe when they both have some time they can get some food and take another couch nap together. (Maybe Jason will get over his fucking nerves and just kiss him next time). He hasn't slept well since his nap on Dick’s lap, and the feeling of vague dread that accompanies laying down in a bed has once again become too familiar. The fucked up dreams have let up at least, less vivid and surreal, maybe a result of his body starting to calm down now that it's convinced he won't be putting himself through terrible sex again in the immediate future.

Now it's just restless hours spent trying to settle and sticky unease as he shakes off hazy dreams every morning. He still sleeps with a gun on him, unwilling to forego that habit even with what happened to Roy's walls. When Roy comes back he'll maybe revisit changing that habit, but Roy's not here right now so it’s a problem for future Jason.

He doesn't like the idea of someone like Selina getting the drop on him again either (even though he _had_ his gun and she still managed it, fucking sleep deprivation). Knowing her, it wasn't personal, but it was icing on the cake for a shitty week.

Surprisingly, Dick is more pissed about it than he is, which he finds endlessly amusing. Jason had pretty much chalked it up to a business hazard in their line of work, which Dick had a lot of things to say about starting with _the fucking reckless disregard for drugging you in the dead of winter and leaving you to get hypothermia and die is not a fucking business hazard._

He swears like Jason when he's mad and it's hilarious.

Jason tells Dick he's being dramatic, but it secretly feels good to have someone get mad on his behalf. It's a reversal from the usual, and he doesn't know where his anger has been that used to so readily erupt.

He'd honestly almost forgotten about the whole thing—and isn’t that something, being so busy that being drugged gets put on the back burner—but it circles back to him in the form of a text from an unknown number.

He's lying on his mattress in what he thinks of as his and Roy's new apartment, contemplating the lack of furniture for the larger space and when he's going to find the time to shop for it—not that a mattress on the floor isn't completely functional. It's six in the morning and he knows he should be sleeping even as the room is gradually getting brighter (he's going to need curtains as well) when his phone buzzes. He drags it towards himself from where it sits on top of the cardboard box he's been using as a nightstand. 

_Your jurisdiction,_ the text reads.

There's a digital file attached. The file is a dossier on a guy he's never seen before. Charles De Leon, 5' 11'', brown eyes, tattoos, in for drug possession. It takes too long to put together that this is the guy that broke out of prison a few days back. The guy that Selina broke out, he corrects himself.

It also means that Tim is the one texting him, and he sure did his homework. There's a biographical summary, prison records, bank records, family connections, and last known address.

Another text comes in:

_Thnx for the save._

Huh.

He's a little surprised his replacement bothered to send this to him at all, let alone admit that he _had_ a jurisdiction.

 _Anytime_ , he ends up typing back. He kind of means it. At least, probably. He's not up to playing hypotheticals at the moment so he lets that line of thought die.

He doesn't know why Catwoman is helping some guy bust out of prison—something he'd consider way out of her wheelhouse— but he's about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Me: emerges from the abyss)
> 
> Holy hell thank you for all the likes and comments! I didn't expect anything and all your kind comments make me smile so hard. I'm such a lurker by nature but I definitely read them <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the kind of the neighborhood he used to wish he was from, back before Bruce and Alfred. Now he just thinks about how De Leon's house will be the easiest of the bunch to scale in broad daylight.

Jason doesn't bother wrestling himself for sleep after Tim's message, instead staking out Charles De Leon's last known address for a good chunk of the morning from a rooftop across the street. He buys himself a hot coffee on his way over and he sips at it, letting it burn his tongue a little, keeping him warm in the morning chill as he feels the caffeine kick in.

The street is a narrow one, a lot quieter than his own, and both sides are residential; brick homes, built side-by-side in one long structure, differentiated only by the various colorations of painted brick. It's an old, well-kept neighborhood and Charles's home is at the end of the row where an alley separates it from a small bodega.

It's the kind of the neighborhood he used to wish he was from, back before Bruce and Alfred. Now he just thinks about how De Leon's house will be the easiest of the bunch to scale in broad daylight.

Tim's stupidly meticulous research tells him Charles has two daughters and Jason watches one of them—a teenager—leave for school around 7:30 a.m. An hour later he watches an older woman exit and lock the door behind her—the girls' grandmother. She gets in a car parked on the street and drives off to go to work. At a pharmacy, according to Tim.

He waits to see if the other daughter will leave the house but she's a first-year university student so she's probably not staying here full time. He still waits, not liking the idea of breaking in with some girl home alone.

By the time the sun has neared its peak in the sky there hasn't been anyone else come or go, nor any movement at the windows. It's as good as a go ahead as he's gonna get and he's getting fucking antsy just standing around anyway, the kind that's somehow both restless and listless, like if he doesn’t move he’ll forget how to and he'll just stay frozen to the concrete rooftop. The coffee may have been a mistake, somehow just making his skin itch on top of his usual tiredness.

He takes the stairwell down to the street, tossing his coffee cup before walking across to the alley like he's a resident going to fetch his motorcycle, his helmet a passable prop for anyone who might be looking. It helps that no one really expects to see Red Hood in the middle of the day. Tucked around the corner, it's then easy enough to hoist himself up onto the ledge of a dumpster, grab the fire escape above, and pull himself up. The window takes a second but he's able to jimmy it open with a sharp knife before ducking inside.

Doing this in broad daylight would look suspicious as fuck if anyone cared.

The bedroom is obviously one of the girls', unless Charles is into boy bands with ironic 80's haircuts and framed illustrations of female political figures. Jason listens carefully for any indication someone is home and when there isn't any he closes the window behind him. He's careful to tread around the floor’s plush, white rug because his boots have touched the dirtiest fucking filth of Gotham and he's not a total dick.

A quick peek in the bedrooms tell him Charles likely hasn't slept up here, but there's evidence of facial hair shavings in the bathroom which is enough to suspect he had been there.

Downstairs is also empty, but Jason can recognize the cushion indentations and ruffled blanket of a night slept on a couch. It's enough to warrant a longer wait for one Mr. De Leon, so Jason plants his butt into a kitchen chair with a sigh and settles in for another few boring hours. He should have until at least four o'clock until the high schooler or old lady get back.

He caves and checks his phone.

It buzzed when he was on the roof and he didn't look at it even though he knew it had to be Grayson. It's not because he didn't want to answer, this time. Dick doesn't mind if it takes him a while to respond when he knows he will eventually, and he's already moved on to teasing Jason about the Week-of-Silence as he's taken to calling it. He supposes he's grateful that Dick can poke fun at something that was…stressful. Jason mostly just tells him to fuck off, which just makes him laugh. He's a dick like that.

Not that he dislikes the teasing. He's coming to realize he never does mind when it's Dick. And as much as he knows that Dick has a petty streak a mile wide when it comes to small slights, like when some rich mucky muck at a gala wraps an insult about his family in passive commentary, Jason also knows Dick's not one to hold a grudge when it's something like this.

He doesn't know _why_ he knows this, but he does. Dick will tease him but it's not hiding any lingering hurt. And knowing he's got a message waiting for him is nice. It makes his jacket feel little heavier where it's tucked away, like a warm reminder. 

If that makes him sound soft then fuck it. He deserves something soft after the shit week he’s had.

Dick's text tells him that Dick is working late tonight and that then he has to go to an event, but that he'll call him after work and that they should meet up later. Then there's a lot of kissy emojis and a looping gif of some long-haired guy—probably some actor he doesn't know—making an exaggerated kissy face followed by some aggressive lip-licking which looks so ridiculous that it can't actually be called anything close to sexual.

It's stupid that the whole thing give him a little shot of dopamine to the brain but he doesn't care. No one can see him smile within the helmet's safety anyway, so he's not particularly worried about forming a bad habit of showing emotion on a job. 

He's going to have to meet up with Thomas later, briefly, to check over new operations, but he definitely wants to see Dick later. Three days feels like a long time.

He shoots a message back— _I’m free later, let’s get tacos_ —and then another— _is this a live image of your seduction technique? I asked and the people want you to put your tongue away_. He doesn't do emojis and the comparison of their messages is always funny to him.

Dick is vague enough about his _event_ that Jason knows it's some kind of bat family thing. It doesn't bother him. It's not like he's actively seeking out more time with them. But there is something to be said about being in the know, and he appreciates Dick not shying away from telling him, albeit indirectly.

Phone tucked back into place, he sits and watches the clock on the kitchen microwave. He can hear the quiet, steady ticking of an analog clock somewhere else in another room and it fills the space as the seconds steadily drag by.

The curtains on the window above the sink are short and white and frilly and they match the aesthetic of Roy's terrible floral wallpaper, or how he imagines the wallpaper was in its prime, before it became ripped and bullet-ridden. They sway a little in the artificial breeze of the air conditioning. The always-present sound of light traffic permeates through the house, muffled through the walls.

The place has a distinctly lulling quality unlike anything he grew up with as a kid. It's a bit like Bruce's study, or what he imagines a grandmother's house to be. The kind of grandmother that makes cookies and fresh bread on Sundays.

It shouldn't surprise him as much it does, then, when he finds himself jolting awake with a pounding heart, harshly disoriented by the sound of a door banging shut and loud voices because he _fucking fell asleep._

_What the fuck._

His pistol is in his hand without having to think about it, but he doesn't get up. Doesn't want to attract attention yet, despite his fucking heartbeat pounding like some alarm system he doesn't know how to turn off. A glance at the clock tells him it's only been twenty minutes but fucking _Christ_. He can't even blame Selina because he triple checks his helmet for tampering every time he puts it on these days. This one's all him and he gives himself exactly one second to be fucking pissed with himself.

"Well it's _bullshit_ ," one of the voice says. Angry. Female. Younger. Most importantly: not Charles. "If you can do the job then they should hire you."

"Sometimes it doesn't work like that, Mari." This voice is male. Tired. Resigned. The Gotham lilt in his accent is more prominent than the girl's. The voices move from the door towards the living room, closer to where Jason sits quietly in the closed-off kitchen, gun in hand, listening to Charles and what must be his other daughter have it out about something. It's just his shit luck that the girl is here too.

"It's not fucking _fair_. You shouldn't have been locked up anyway, and now—"

"Hey," he interrupts, almost reprimanding. "We talked about this. I messed up and I got caught."

"It was a first offense! Those fuckers let you take the fall and they should—

" _Marianna_." Now he's stern. Scolding. Jason's heard that tone plenty of times. It makes his skin prickle in misplaced irritation.

"Are you saying I should have done nothing?" she scoffs, and Jason's heard that tone too, mostly from himself.

A sigh, the voice moving towards the kitchen. "I'm _saying_ I wish I hadn't put any of you in a position you felt you had to do something. What you did was dangerous…"

It’s then that Charles sees Jason and it's like someone's hit pause, his body becoming a frozen, solid barricade in the kitchen doorframe. To Charles's credit, he remains calm. "…and I hate that," he finishes. Jason jerks his head in Marianna's direction: _get rid of her if you don't want her involved._

"I was _fine_ , Dad. We know how to take care of ourselves," she huffs, slightly heated, voice still in the other room. There's a beat where Charles is still frozen and Jason is silent and Marianna is quiet but then she mutters, "I've been taking care me and Tessa for years." The words may be quieter but Jason's positive they're still made to bait.

"I know, baby," Charles says quietly, his tone mismatched from the sharp eyes which haven't left Red Hood's form. He moves further into the kitchen, cautiously. He reaches for the cupboard, opening it to show Jason before moving to grab a cup in it. Plastic, not glass, telegraphing his moves as he fills it with water at the sink before taking a sip, making noise as to not let on to his daughter that a strange man with a gun is in their house. He's surprisingly smart for someone who got caught with something like possession.

Charles settles back against the cabinet by the doorframe, acting barricade again. He's a big man, wide and muscled, and Jason would rather not get into a fist fight with him if it could be avoided. "Hey, baby?" he calls. "Can you go check on Mrs. Jansen next door? She might need some help with those groceries and all that ice on her steps."

The suggestion has the opposite effect when Marianna's quick footsteps come towards the kitchen and she asks, "What? Why are you being weird?"

She freezes in the kitchen entrance next to Charles, eyes going wide, gaze darting to her father and back to Red Hood. Then in obvious panic she blurts out, "It wasn't his fault!" 

"Go upstairs. Right now." Charles doesn't look away from Jason, voice urgent and serious, his tone finally matching the rest of his demeanor. She doesn't move, because that would be too easy for Jason. Instead she slowly squares up until there's a hard scowl covering the fear underneath. She's not very tall or physically intimidating, but he can sense her stubbornness like a physical aura. It would be commendable if it wasn't stupid.

"You should listen to your father," Jason says, and fuck if he'll have to laugh later about the irony of that sentence coming from his mouth. They both start a little at his voice.

For some reason Marianna takes this to mean she should double down on her bullheadedness because now she's glaring at him. "I know you hate drug dealers," she hisses. Her hands are fists at her side. "Everyone knows that. I'm not going anywhere."

She talks like Jason's going to murder him in their home. Which is…fair, though he lets himself inwardly sigh. It's not like Charles is particularly high profile, though, or any kind of drug kingpin. He wasn't even in for dealing, technically, just possession. Then again, he's taken out kneecaps for way less.

Charles face hasn't twitched, alert and vigilant, like prey pretending to be the hunter. 

"You can't—" She looks at her dad. Back to Jason. She's practically vibrating with some combination of anger or fear or adrenaline. "It was my idea. You can't, please, you—"

"Stop," Jason says, and she does. He hates the desperation in her voice. "You can stop." He exhales heavily and it sounds weird through the helmet's modulation. "I'm not gonna kill anybody, okay? So you can calm down. Here's what's going to happen. You're both going to sit down and we're going to talk, and then I'm going to decide what to do."

They both stare at him, unmoving. He suppresses the urge to sigh again. Fucking hell.

Jason stands and they both tense further, somehow, though it's more subtle in Charles. He moves away from the table, opposite the kitchen from them both. "Sit," he says, gesturing once sharply with his gun towards the table. They don't move for a long second but Jason tilts his head like a question and Charles breaks first, stepping towards the table and waving his daughter behind him, keeping himself between them. He seems to get bigger, tilting his body like he's trying to shield her.

Jason'll give him exactly five not-a-total-shit-father points for it—for being protective—but it doesn't discount the possibility of him being shitty in other ways. Bruce was always protective of Jason too, when he wasn't yelling at him for being reckless or putting him into reckless situations or replacing him five seconds after he was six feet under.

You can be a shit father in all sorts of ways.

Jason keeps the gun loosely pointed at the ground in their direction and moves in tandem with them, moving back towards the doorway as they get settled at the table.

Satisfied that no one is going be able to make a run for it, he puts the gun away at his hip, and leans against the wall where Charles was a minute before.

He doesn't love this whole development, but it could definitely be worse. He'll admit the girl has made this whole thing more interesting at least, like he doesn't have enough interesting things happen to him every day. He'd kill for a nice, boring weekend. Fucking unpredictable civilians and their hero complexes.

"So," he prompts, "who wants to explain why Catwoman staged a prison break?" His tone is innocuous, like he's asking about fucking baseball. It doesn't seem to relax them any.

"You?" He nods towards the girl. It's not meant to be offensive but she bristles at that, all narrowed eyes, like he's doubting her capable. As if he's one to underestimate the women in Gotham. It's Charles who wets his lips and opens his mouth to speak.

"No," Marianna cuts him off, muttering low, "You're not taking the fall again."

"Neither are you, Mari. You have an actual future."

"Let her talk." Fuck he was getting a headache. He doesn't want to think about protective fathers and just-as-protective children. "She claims she's the mastermind here, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you if you don't do anything stupid." He wishes he could take the helmet off so he could rub his face. "I'm just here for information," he adds, trying to get them to chill out and talk so he can hurry up to the part where he can leave. Maybe he should just tell Dick where Charles is and have him make an arrest. It would be so easy, and Dick would do it in a heartbeat too, for Jason, but something tells him that Selina wanted this little meetup to happen. She's too good to leave any kind of trail, even for his replacement to dig up.

He still can't believe that he passed out while trespassing. Fucking idiot.

Marianna takes a deep breath, hands playing with the edge of the table. "We noticed… that, um, Batman and everyone don’t come around here anymore since you showed up. Red Robin, Nightwing, the bunch." She says it like she's not listing off the guy who sent him here and his…whatever Dick is to him. He wasn't expecting that to be how she started and fuck if he's thrown for a loop for a second. She takes his silence as a bid for her to continue.

"And my dad, he was arrested a while ago. But, he shouldn't have been. Or at least, um, shouldn't have gotten that much time."

"Mari, I—"

"Let her finish," Jason interrupts again, though he's still caught up on the fact that the bats movements are being brought up so casually. He doesn't know how he feels about her lumping him in with them. 

Marianna swallows, her gaze fixed on the table. "So, uh, there was an greater opportunity. To get him out. With just one of you around. And, I have a friend who works at this museum. Expensive art…" She trails off, like he should know where this is going, and he does, is the thing.

"And?" Jason still prompts.

"It wasn't hard…to get, um, Catwoman's attention. And make a trade. Access to the art. For a chance to get my dad out."

Jason thinks about that for exactly one second.

"How the fuck is some college student on scholarship getting in contact with Catwoman?"

"Um," she says, finally glancing over at her dad.

Charles looks remarkably more relaxed now that Jason doesn't have a gun out in the vicinity of his daughter, and now…almost sheepish. Charles coughs. "We had a…brief romance," he says, "before my whole stint, obviously."

Jason digests this new information, and finds it makes sense. A chance at a greatly valued steal and the involvement of an amicable former flame would be enough to sway Selina to hack the locking system at the prison. Hell, they probably don't even know how she got rid of Red Hood for a night.

"Why does your daughter seem to think you didn't deserve your sentence?" he asks Charles, switching gears because this seems relevant to deciding what Jason will do with him.

"I don't—" he stops, wets his lips, starts again. "I got in with a bad crowd. And when I was caught, I was the only one sentenced. She doesn't seem to think that was…fair."

"Because it wasn't," Marianna says, angry, belligerent, matter-of-fact, crossing her arms and fixing her gaze on Red Hood now, having a sudden influx of bravado now that she's defending her father. "He didn't even know he was transporting drugs, and the other guys all ran off."

"That true? You didn't know?"

Charles slowly shakes his head. "I didn't ask. But I still knew it was something stupid."

"Who were you working for?"

Charles hesitates, clearly not wanting to voice this, but he answers, "Black Mask."

Jason hums, big picture coming together. "So, who caught you?" he asks, though he already suspects who.

"Batman."

Jason almost laughs, because yeah that'll get him a long stint in prison if he got caught up in the power struggle between Bruce and Roman. Fucking Christ. He must not suppress his reaction completely, or maybe Charles is good at reading people, because Charles suddenly opens his mouth and just starts talking.

"I know," Charles says, "that people like you, they don't really care about what happens to people like me. Drug lords, gang leaders, vigilantes, they fight each other but they're all the same, really. It's people like me who get caught up and take the hit, the people who get desperate and stupid—and that's not an excuse, Mari, it's not," he says, looking to his daughter. "But. I'd still like a chance. To work at least. Do something useful. See my girls. I don't want to be in prison the rest of my life for a stupid mistake."

Jason can see what he means, though it's not typically anything he's had to think about for any length of time. He doesn't like that the words ring true, and it sets off a whole other set of doubts that he pushes away for now. This whole thing is just about Charles right now. He's the only one Jason has to focus on right now.

And maybe Charles is a good actor, but it seems as though he does feel torn up about his past, considering the way he's not justifying himself to his daughter and not already employed by one of the many gangs or underworld groups. It's like he wants to teach his daughter fucking responsibility or whatever, but it's also not like he's turning himself in. He obviously believes part of what she's saying.

The most compelling point of his case is that nothing points to him being a current problem and, also, maybe because part of Jason feels a little of his old, rebellious flare when he's about to go against one of Batman's calls. 

It's the smaller part, obviously, but it's still good feeling in that delicious, petty way.

He also knows he himself lives in a weird hypocritical space because he's definitely sent his fair share to hospitals and prisons, but with all his own drug trafficking and firearms possession Jason would be jailed for a long ass time if he were ever caught. It makes making decisions like this easier for some reason.

"Well, okay then," he says, like that answers everything. Jason isn't going to send him back, but it doesn't feel like he can just leave him. He definitely doesn't want him in contact with any of Black Mask's cronies if he ever feels desperate enough for cash. He remembers what him and his daughter were talking about when they came in. "What do you plan on doing now, as a fugitive with a felony?"

Charles blinks at him, meets his daughter’s eyes, and turns back to Jason. "It's a work in progress."

"Come work for me."

"…what?"

"Come work for me," he repeats.

"You want me… to come work for you. After I got caught, working for someone like you. Is this some type of blackmail?"

That earns an amused sort of scoff. "Ha, _fuck_ no. I meant at one of the fronts. A real job. You got any skills with cars?

"A little."

"You can learn."

"Not a chop shop, right?"

"I've got enough going on without that noise," Jason says. "And you have a fucking family, you better be staying away from that shit." He's dead serious. Jason's not going to be the one dragging him back into this world, steady income or not.

"When…?" He's quiet, shocked.

"You can start day after tomorrow. We'll do a background check. Thorough. You are not to have any contact with the gangs, mafia or otherwise, including any one of my guys, capiche?"

"Yeah." He looks dazed. "Capiche." 

"Whoa, whoa," Marianna says, palms up in a slow-down gesture. She's been looking back and forth during their exchange in dazed disbelief, and now it's caught up to her. She points a finger at Jason. "Are you fucking with us?"

"Not at all. I don't typically take well to unprovoked attacks to my person, and you're not wrong about me not being particularly fond of some of the drug dealers in this city, unintentional or not. But I don't see the point in throwing away value."

Not that Jason needs him, but his family certainly does. Enough that his daughter made the effort to break him out in the first place.

They're both just looking at him, and Jason's just about done. He's tired, and he doesn't want to think about how many Charles' there are. About how punching people like him may not being doing much to help quell Gotham's crime rates when there's someone just as desperate ready to step in. About how the threat of a gun or a broken femur wouldn't have stopped his mom from using. About how even after all this time him and the bats might really be just containing instead of actually helping.

Maybe that's why he claps his hands together like some New England stiff and says, "Well, I'm off." He points at Charles, "O'malley's, off 6th. Day after tomorrow. Don't fuck this up."

"I won't," he says, still quiet, near reverent.

And with that, Jason turns and walks out into the living room, headed for the door.

"Wait!" Marianna calls. He hears her chair scrape back, and Jason turns around at the little entryway just in time to see her stop at the kitchen doorway.

"Thank you," she says, way too emotional for Jason's comfort level.

"Don't worry about it, kid. Keep him straight."

She nods. Jason turns and walks out the door.

—

When Dick and his partner get back from patrol, he tells Amy to go ahead. She gives him a knowing look but leaves him alone in their squad car, parked in the precinct's small parking lot. His shift is a still a couple hours from being over but both Tim and Cassie texted him and he really just wants to hear Jason's voice. It's been a long week for both of them.

Jason picks up on the second ring.

"Hello?" he says, and Dick's ninety-eight percent sure that he never looks at caller ID, but damn if his voice isn't the best thing Dick's ever heard.

"Hey, Jay."

"Hi," Jason breathes, which sounds too much like a sigh.

"You okay?"

"What? Yeah. Just tired."

He sounds it, too, though there's something a little off in his breathing that makes Dick want to press the issue. He's trying to decide if he's going to take Jason at his word when he hears the long exhale, like he's blowing air past the speaker. _Ah._

"You know smoking is bad for you, right?"

"Oh, fuck off, birdbrain."

Dick laughs. "Come on now, I'm just trying to keep your mouth fresh."

"And why the hell would you want that, hm?"

"Much as I love the taste of ash tray, I definitely love the taste of you a lot more."

There's quiet on the phone.

"Jay?"

"Yeah, I'm here." He sounds a little strangled.

"I really like how you taste," Dick hums, instinctively niggling like he always does when he gets a reaction, pressing just a little bit further to get just a little bit more of Jason's delightful responses. Then he realizes that what he said sounds like more than he's actually implying and he's probably coming on a little too strong for having decided to hand the steering wheel to Jason in this area. He doesn't let any concern show, just continues in a low teasing tone, "That okay, Little Wing? If memory serves, I think you owe me a real kiss."

"Jesus," Jason swears, "who says things like that." But he doesn't sound upset. He sounds the opposite. He's definitely breathing funny now, to Dick's great satisfaction. "Is this you trying to initiate phone sex? Aren't you at work?" Jason asks, incredulous and definitely not as even-keeled as he wishes.

"Oh, baby," Dick breathes, smiling to himself, "you'd know if I was trying to do that."

Jason laughs, but it's off, rough and raspy. "You can taste all you want but I'm still finishing this pack."

Dick sighs, all faux-forlorn. "The sacrifices I make."

"Yeah, yeah. You're such a dramatic bastard. Bet you don't even hate the taste of cigarettes."

"No comment, thank you."

"Uh-huh," he says, amusement in his voice. There's a pause where Dick knows he's taking a draw, and then there's that long, blowing exhale again.

"Tim said he sent over some info," Dick says, casually testing the waters in this area. When it comes to the Tim, the blatant animosity or indifference that Jason tends to flip between seems to have fizzled and mellowed out by some degree. That tends to happen when you actually have to interact with someone, that someone bails you out, and then you bail that someone out in return. Dick's not even making them talk their feelings about it aloud—look at him respecting boundaries—but he's cautiously hopeful. "You catch the guy yet?"

"Oh, yeah, actually. Drake is quite, uh, thorough when it comes to research."

Dick snorts. "Understatement of the century. I don't even think I should tell him you said that, positive reinforcement isn't helping him know when to quit." That, and the more meticulous Tim's reports, the more detailed Bruce wants the rest of their reports to be. "So, how'd that go?"

"Oh, good." Another drag and long blow. "I gave the guy a job."

"You what?" Dick laughs, incredulous. Knowing Jason, he was just as likely to send the guy to the hospital, but when Dick thinks about it for another second, he finds he's not as surprised as he thought he would be. It sounds exactly like something Jason would do, which is the opposite of whatever's expected of him.

"Yeah," Jason mutters, embarrassed and maybe realizing what he did was weird. "It seemed like the right call."

"Then it probably was," Dick allows, shifting his seat so he can slump down a little further. A yawn creeps up on him and he talks through the tail end of it, "Just let me know if you need me to arrest someone."

Jason doesn't answer for a long moment, and then he's back to say, "Don't make me yawn, fucker."

Dick laughs. "Sorry."

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not,” he says, smiling like the idiot he is. The thing is he'd be way more insistent about putting whatever-the-guy's-name-is back into prison if the whole Selina fiasco was public knowledge. No part of him is going to allow people to think they can attack Jason (or have Catwoman attack Jason) and then expect to get gainful employment out of it. Hell, Jason.

And there's the fact that he's a cop, so an arrest should theoretically be at the forefront of his priorities, but there's already enough irony there to make that reason null and void. Besides, as much as a fuss that Bruce kicked up about Red Hood before the whole era of truces, Bruce was also the one that originally trained him. Jason knows what he's doing.

"I don't know if I should be saying this," Dick chuckles, "seeing as how am literally in uniform right now, but I'm glad the guy made your cut." Then he adds, "I'm still pissed at Selina, though. She's—

"A total bitch. Yeah, I heard you the first ten times," Jason says, then snorts, a huff of air through his nose.

"I was going to say she's off every party, gala, and charity event list for the rest of the year."

"You think B would anyway invite her anyway?"

"Fine," Dick sighs dramatically, "point conceded. But if she calls for help I'm letting her flounder."

"Liar."

"Ugh. Let me be mad, dammit."

Jason hums, amused. "Did you know my new employee used to date Catwoman. That makes him, like, your dad's ex's ex."

Dick doesn't correct him to _our_ dad. They both know their boundaries of what's normal are already skewed enough without having to voice it. Plus it would probably piss Jason off in less than 0.2 seconds, and watching Jason get drunk on rage is terrifyingly fascinating but never worth it.

"Jason Todd," Dick says with his best scandalized tone, "are you _gossiping_?" He whispers the last word, for dramatic flair, because if Jason is going to call him dramatic then he's going to get dramatic.

"No."

"I think I know gossip when I hear it."

"Fuck off."

"No thanks," he says politely, and damn he's missed this. Missed Jason.

He remembers Cass's message and is just about to bring it up when Jason asks, "Can I ask you a question?"

Dick picks up on the clear shift in the energy of the conversation, like whatever Jason's asking is heavier in matter and important, at least to Jason, which of course means it's important to Dick, too. 

"Yeah, what's up."

And then Jason doesn't ask the question, at least not immediately. He's just silent. Dick knows this mood though, even if he's only experienced a couple times from him, so Dick waits him out. Eventually there's a very long exhale, though Dick doesn't know if Jason's blowing smoke or if it's purely just emotional.

"Do you think." Jason cuts himself off, full stop, then mutters, "Nevermind."

"Well, to answer your question, yes I do think, contrary to popular belief," Dick smart mouths, knowing full well the only way to get Jason to open up is to needle him. Sure enough, Jason huffs in hopefully enough amusement to distract him from whatever's got him so clammed up. "Come on," Dick pushes, "you can't backtrack there. What's up, Jay?"

"Fine," Jason sighs, and let's several breaths go by in silence as Dick waits again. "Do you know if B is looking into any new community projects?" He asks it way too nonchalantly, like he didn't have to be coaxed to voice it, and like he's not voluntarily bringing up Bruce a second time in a conversation.

He doesn't know why this is important to Jason, but for some reason it is. Dick has a guess that he has some kind of funding on his mind, but Jason would never say that aloud without being very angry about it simultaneously. Something tells Dick not to press for specifics.

"You know him," Dick responds, just as carefully, pretending for Jason that this is a normal tangent of conversation for them. "He's always looking for investments."

Dick's still not sure how to best navigate this part of Jason, the part where Jason talks about Bruce in the non-abstract, like he's a real, active player in Gotham and both of their lives instead of someone who dated Catwoman once upon a time. Dick can tell Jason is stressed about something specific, but without knowing why exactly or what provoked it beyond Bruce's simple existence, all Dick can do is try not to hit any minefields himself. When Bruce is being seen as a player in the game of Gotham and Jason, that's when the line between calm and catastrophe is most pulled taut and Dick definitely doesn't want to be the one plucking it.

When Jason doesn't say anything more, Dick asks, "What brought this on?"

"Just thinking," is Jason's response, more pensive than dismissive.

"If you're looking to make a proposal, Tim's is good at numbers and projections," Dick says, still in that carefully unconcerned tone they've curated this conversation around. He's not trying to push Tim onto Jason, but it might be helpful if he knows he's got more than just Dick in his corner for something like this. A proposal for a community project is not something Tim is going to object to.

"It's not—I'm just thinking about it," he cuts himself off with a sigh.

"Okay," Dick says easily. "Let me know when thinking turns into doing because that tends to happen pretty quick when it comes to you."

Jason snorts. "Yeah, well. Maybe I'll have to take your place as the impulsive one of the group," he says, and Dick can imagine the quirk of his mouth as he does.

"I'm the impulsive one? What does that make you?"

"I'm the hot one," he says, like it's obvious.

" _What?_ " Dick laughs, surprised and delighted. He adopts a low tease, just on the side of suggestive, before he says, "Why don't you come over and I'll _show you_ impulsive."

"You're incorrigible," Jason snorts.

"Yep," he agrees happily. "But only when it comes to you, babycakes."

"If you call me that in front of anyone I will end you."

"I'd like to see you try, sweetheart."

Jason just grunts in response, which earns a laugh from Dick because he really did snag someone so soft and prickly.

"Oh, also, before I forget," Dick says, remembering, "Cass wanted me to invite you to her ballet performance. It's at the old academy theatre, tonight at eight. I told her I'd let you know, but she'll understand if you can't make it."

There's a pause on Jason 's end, smaller than when he was working himself up to ask about Bruce, but still a larger hesitation than Dick was expecting, seeing as how he was expecting a quick dismissal. Instead Jason goes and says, "No…I'll be there."

He's glad Jason can't see his eyebrows climb in surprise. "Okay, yeah," he says without missing a beat lest Jason doubts his welcome. "I'm headed there the second I get off work, so…I'll meet you there?"

"Yeah. Sounds good."

"Okay." Well, hopefully this event will be good one for Jason to decide to dip a toe into things with _. It will be a good one_ , he corrects. "Oh, and Jason? Wear something tight."

Jason snorts. "Fuck Off."

Dick's already laughing. "Bye, see you there," he sing-songs.

"Fucking incorrigible," and Dick knows he's shaking his head.

Dick hangs up with a smile on his face, feeling better than he has in a long time, and even without Jason's explicit emotional expression of what he wants from Dick, he's more sure than ever about what Jason means to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow, thank you to everyone who's read! I'm blown away than this many people like my story. Also SORRY for my absence, I got a job and I am tired, all the time haha. 
> 
> I don't know why it took me a month and a half to truck through the first scene, and exactly one evening to write Dick and Jason's little convo. I love them. And if there are mistakes it's because I post at my most sleep deprived.
> 
> My thoughts are that Selina was fun little spicy spice, but Jason was already overworked and tired beforehand, and in a way she gave him a reprieve. He's still dealing with the same issues, and he's not dealing with his trauma in a way that will be helpful if triggered again. But damn if I can give him some support team back, even if he's gonna need more if he doesn't want to be overworked, sleepy boy forever. Somebody tell Roy to come back so he can take Jason on a vacation. And somebody tell Dick and Jason to *kith* already.
> 
> Jason: Grr Bruce is a shit dad I never want to see him or talk about him  
> Also Jason: thinks about Bruce nostalgically and brings him up in casual conversation


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew Jason was coming, but it's still a surprise to see the back of his head in line with the row of their family, seated near the end and dressed in a black t-shirt and his leather jacket. It's like a strange colliding of worlds…one that Dick is hoping will mesh into something normal over time. Baby steps, and all that. 

Dick gets to the high school way later than he wanted to, pulling into the dark parking lot nearly thirty minutes after Cass's ballet recital has started. Even late, he didn't have a chance to change out of his uniform so he strips his shirt in the driver's seat and pulls on the spare t-shirt that lives in his car before grabbing his coat and running inside.

The theater itself is actually just a very expensive two-story auditorium sectioned off inside a patron-funded private school of the arts, one that none of the Wayne's every attended, but one that Bruce has surely donated to. The theater has its own lobby that only opens to the courtyard, as it's tucked into the back of the building—which is like a fortress, tall and gothic and castle-like—no doubt so attendees have to walk through the school as some kind of free advertising.

It probably works.

The marble and stone hallways are empty and he has to wait outside the theater with a bored-looking usher until the current number ends and he can slip inside.

He knew Jason was coming, but it's still a surprise to see the back of his head in line with the row of their family, seated near the end and dressed in a black t-shirt and his leather jacket. It's like a strange colliding of worlds…one that Dick is hoping will mesh into something normal over time. Baby steps, and all that. 

Barbara's parked right next to him and Dick gives her hand a squeeze before climbing past Jason's long legs and plopping down in the empty seat between Jason and Tim. He bumps Tim with an arm to say hello, who has his head bent, whispering to Stephanie. The lights on stage start to rise again and he finally looks over at Jason to find an unimpressed eyebrow quirked at him.

"Sorry," Dick whispers with a grimace, then mouths, "You okay?"

"Never better, " he says, looking back to the stage. "Now shush, the show's starting again."

He doesn't _seem_ uncomfortable, at least. Dick just pinches his arm through his jacket in response and then turns his focus to the stage too.

The _show_ , as Jason called it, turns out to some kind of elaborate love story told through dance, though Dick can't yet pick out if it's a tragedy or celebratory. The entire production is obviously well funded, the costumes alone immaculately detailed, all golds and reds and classic silhouettes. And the dancers are obviously well-trained, so it's not like he'd call anyone on stage _bad_ , not at all. It's just that Cass dances with strength and elegance of ten dancers. She's a graceful fighter, or course, but this a different world, all harnessed strength without the brutality.

It's honestly just nice to be around for something normal, especially after he's skipped out on so many events in the last month.

It's a nice change of pace. His own day job is so tangled up in their nightlife that it's rare to get away. He's been dealing with the mafia mess for days, the entirety of today alone spent corroborating evidence that should hopefully make a sentence stick to one of the main Bertenelli brothers…if they're lucky. His partner was still working when he left, but he's glad he didn't choose to miss this.

Not that he would have ditched Jason, regardless.

Jason, who is slouched lower and lower in his seat every time Dick glances over.

By the time intermission arrives, Dick has to nudge him to get up. It's kind of cute, even as it feeds into his low-buzzing worry about Jason's recent sleep issues. 

They follow Babs out into the lobby area outside the theater, mostly because Tim and Steph want to get some snacks and they all don't want to be climbed over. If milling about with the crowd also helps them avoid prying questions from the few parents who haven't learned proper boundaries, then that’s also a plus.

Tim and Steph immediately disappear into the crowd to scavenge the concessions stand, and Dick lets his hand rest on Jason's back for single moment as he nudges him again towards a stone bench, built into an shallow alcove along the wall. Jason sits. He still has bags under his eyes. He only let Cass help with patrol for one night before he pulled the plug and Dick doesn't know how else to help. He's not going to bring it up right now, anyhow.

Dick takes a seat next to Jason and they chat about nothing for a few minutes, Dick and Babs that is, Dick feeling what's probably too overly-cautious about trying to engage Jason in group conversation. Barbara has no such qualms and starts up a chat with Jason about The Great British Bake Off, which surprisingly works for a minute, though his comments are short. Dick can see he's exhausted despite any half-smile he gives her.

When either of them finds the time to watch so much television, Dick can never figure out.

By the third short answer, Jason has his eyes closed, leaning back against the wall. Barbara shares a look with Dick, but he just presses his lips together and shakes his head. Then she gives him a stupidly knowing look, raising her eyebrows, eyes still crinkled in good-natured amusement, and Dick has to roll his eyes at her. She purses her lips like _mm-hm_ and rolls herself away, presumably to the restrooms. Rude.

(He loves her.)

Dick lets a thigh press again Jason's. "You okay?" Dick asks, ignoring the way he sounds like a broken record.

"Yeah. Told you earlier. Tired." Jason peaks out at Dick through his lashes. "You okay?" he echoes, that eyebrow quirked again.

Dick snorts. "Yup." He knows that all he's going to pry from him for the moment, his eyes already slipped closed again. "They say where Alfred is?" Dick asks, looking around like an immaculately dressed British man might appear. "I thought he was coming."

"The Manor. Barbie said B and the brat are getting in late tonight."

"Ah.” They must have caught an earlier flight.

"Yeah…” Jason mumbles. “Would've been nice to see the old man."

He means Alfred, of course. He doesn't think Jason would've let that sentence slip if he was functioning on full sleep. If he was here, no doubt Alfred would spike his tea for calling him old, too.

"You know…" Dick says. "You can always—"

"Dick! Dickie. You need to settle this debate," Steph interrupts, bright and loud over the dull chatter of the intermission crowd, blonde ponytail swinging as she drags Tim by his shirt through the edge of the crowd, who in turn has several bags of chips and candy cradled in his arms as well as a couple of bottled sodas. She lets him go when they get to their bench and instead grabs a bag of Cheetos from Tim's pile. “Who would win,” she pops the bag open, “ten thousand rats or fifteen wolves?”

“Uh, in a fight?” Dick laughs, allowing the distraction.

“Rats,” Jason answers her, eyes now open, not missing a beat.

“Right?” She waves at Jason like _thank you for making my point._

“That’s not even the debate!” Tim protests, stealing a Cheeto from Steph's hand. He points it at her like it’s a finger, the other arm still cradling their pilfered goodies. “I’m saying five gorillas _and_ fifteen wolves would probably do the most damage.”

“Are you kidding me?” Steph scoffs. “Have you seen Ratatouille? If those suckers can run a 5-star restaurant and chase down a car, they can definitely take down fifteen wolves. Rats and gorillas? That’s all you’ll ever need.” She holds out the open end of her chip back to Dick and Jason, shaking it a little to let them know she's offering.

“Okay, back up, what are the options?” Dick asks, plucking a couple Cheetos from the bag and handing one to Jason, who puts the end in his mouth like it's a cigarette.

“Okay so we've got…" She rubs her fingers together to get rid of some cheese dust and pulls her phone from her back pocket, taking a moment to unlock it before listing off, "Fifty hawks, ten crocodiles, three bears, seven water buffalos, a man with a gun, fifteen wolves, five gorillas, four lions, and…wait for it…ten thousand rats." She stuffs her phone back in her back pocket and digs a couple more Cheetos out of the bag, "My money is on my glorious army of rats."

"You can choose _two_ options to fight the rest," Tim adds with an eyeroll, handing Steph one of the drinks in his arms.

"I’d take my chances with the hawks and rats," Dick says.

"You would like the hawks, pretty bird," Jason snorts, flicking his tongue to pull the perched Cheeto into his mouth.

"Hey now, they could go for the eyes, easy. Blind the rest," he defends, determinedly not staring at Jason's mouth because that had no right to be attractive. Jason's just eating a Cheeto, Christ.

"But we’ve decided that the rats are in no matter what?" Steph asks, smiling with her eyebrows raised, hand held out like she's awaiting the final verdict to be placed in it.

"Yup," Jason says.

"Oh, absolutely," Dick concedes.

"Ha!" She points a finger at Tim, doing a little gloating victory dance that makes Dick smile. He glances over at Jason and he's also lazily grinning, head tilted back against wall, exposing the column of his throat. It makes Dick's stomach ache with want, the combination of soft happiness on Jason's face and stripe of bare skin doing things to Dick that he promptly files away to examine later, away from family.

"Eat it Drake," Steph tells Tim, surely making a smug face at him, as she often does.

Dick turns his attention back to them and catches Tim's already looking back at him. It's only for a second, Tim breaking eye contact immediately, gaze darting to Jason and then turning back to Steph, but Dick feels caught for some reason.

He often forgets out hyper-observant Tim can be. It's a good thing they're more-or-less an open secret at this point.

Though…he should probably tell Jason at some point that Dick's the one who made it an open secret. He can't wait for that conversation.

"Okay, wait wait," Tim says to Steph, like he wasn't just eyeballing Dick as he watched Jason. Again. "What about crocodiles and gorillas? Rats can't get through crocodile skin and gorillas would stomp them to death."

"There are ten _thousand_ of them, Tim." She waves towards Dick himself. "Dickie already said, all you have to do is take out the eyes. And I think you _know_ it because you're usually a better strategist than this. You just don’t like rats," Steph accuses. 

"Oh, absolutely. I hate them," Tim agrees solemnly, and Steph laughs.

Barbara just happens to come back into earshot just then. "What do you hate?" she asks, stopping to take a pack of sour gummy worms from Tim's arms. 

“Oh Babs! You need to weigh in, who would win, ten thousand rats or—"

“Oh the rats for sure.”

"You didn’t even hear the whole thing!" Tim protests.

"I’ve already seen it. Still rats," Babs says with an unapologetic shrug.

Tim groans and Steph laughs, then feeds him the last Cheeto, crinkling up the empty bag. Jason is still smiling too, that amused one with no teeth that makes Dick want to pet his hair because it's goddamn adorable. For everyone else it probably at least makes Jason seem less _sharp_. Maybe a lower candidate on the "most likely to be a murderer" poll, if that kind of thing took into account appearance alone.

Jason catches him looking and gives him a quizzical look, but Dick shakes his head to let him know it's nothing.

It would sound unwelcomingly sentimental to tell him that he's loving having Jason around everyone for something normal and not crime-related. That he's happy that the others can get a glimpse of Jason outside of his hard persona.

Dick wasn't even aware of the kind of tension he was carrying until something in him relaxes at seeing everyone get along. Even Tim doesn't seem to mind that Jason's here, though the fact that Steph's here and that Cass technically invited him may have contributed.

The end of intermission is announced a minute later and they shuffle with the crowd back into the auditorium and into their row. The lights come down and orchestral music starts back up and dancers swoop out from both sides of the stage, dressed in tight, skin-toned costumes, clearly a more modern piece. Maybe. Dick's given up at being able to tell what's going on with the plot, and it doesn't look like Cass is in this one anyway.

Not even the full song in, Dick hears a heavy exhale and looks over to see Jason's head tilted back against his seatback, eyes closed, either resting or out cold. Dick just snorts fondly and lets him be, deciding to let him snooze. It's warm and dark and the music does sound like something on one of Tim's many study playlists. It's not an environment best suited for keeping someone awake on the best of days. 

His resolution to let Jason rest doesn't last long though, not when Jason starts twitching a few minutes later, small jerks in his arms and face that seem more disturbed than restful. They're probably not particularly noticeable to anyone else around them, but Dick reaches over to tap on Jason's knuckles anyway, not wanting him to startle awake like the last time Dick woke him up, fists swinging.

He drags eyes open to look around blurrily.

"Hey," whispers Dick.

Jason sits up a bit. Looks at him. Looks at the stage. Then he slouches back down, crossing his arms loosely in front of himself. Dick lets him be again, sorry he can't just let him sleep here when he clearly needs the rest.

Another dance number starts and Jason immediately starts nodding off again, head lolling and then jerking up, actively fighting off the sleep that's valiantly trying to pull him under, and Dick thinks enough is enough.

When the lights go down between songs he takes Jason's bicep in hand and gently shakes him to bring his awareness back to the surface. When his eyes land on Dick, Dick stands with his coat in hand and tugs at him until Jason relents and lets Dick pull him to his feet and herd him out of the row ahead of himself. He squeezes Babs' hand again on the way out, leaning down to quietly ask her to apologize to Cass for them, before straightening and guiding Jason out with a hand on his back.

He'll make sure to let Cass know himself how great her performance was. She's set to have another performance in a month or so—some competition—and Dick will make sure to be there for the whole thing, then.

"Where we going?" Jason asks through a large yawn as they emerge into the empty lobby space.

"Thought we could go for a drive. That sound okay?" Dick asks, leisurely leading the way down the hallway that offshoots the lobby, his hands in his coat pockets. They're not in a rush and he's counting on Jason falling asleep in the car.

"I drove the bike," Jason says, like that means something. Like Dick's going to let him drive them anywhere in his condition.

"Good thing I'm smart and drive a car in the winter, huh?" Dick says.

"Did we decide you were the smart one then?" Jason says in what might be a teasing tone otherwise, a yawn ruining the affect, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as they round the corner of the hall. "I thought that was—…."

He stops midsentence, freezing up completely half a second before Dick's own brain registers what's going on… _who he's seeing_ , his internal alarm bells going off in shrill surprise.

Bruce is stopped short halfway down the hall, looking equally surprised to see them, dressed in a dark gray travel coat.

Shit.

None of them move, like a stalled game of chicken, Dick resisting the sudden urge to block Jason from view.

It's Bruce who takes the first step forward, then another, slowing making his way towards them until he stalls again not ten feet away, Dick not moving a muscle because he can feel Jason next to him, uncharacteristically still as stone.

"Dick… Jason," Bruce says. "…Hi."

"Hi Bruce," Dick answers for them, as casual as he can. "I thought you weren't getting in until later."

"Took an earlier flight. I wanted to catch the tail end…," he trails off, still looking at Jason, and when Dick risks a single glance over he sees Jason staring holes into the ground, jaw tight and body frozen, cornered for ten seconds and completely shut down. Not anger, then…probably.

"I'm sure Cass'll be happy to see you. We were just headed out." He gives Bruce a look that says _please don't_ , reaching over to grasp Jason's bicep, tugging him a little to get him moving towards the door, hoping he knows Dick is trying to pull him past Bruce and not towards him. Jason allows himself to be pulled again, eyes still glued to the ground, past where Bruce stands silently, looking like he wants to say more.

"See you at home. Let Cass know she did great!" Dick calls back with a wave before leading Jason around the far corner, now with a hand on his back.

Jason seems to snap out of it a few strides later now that they're out of sight, pulling away from Dick's hold and making a beeline for the solid wooden doors at the end of the hall, the ones that lead out into the parking lot. Or maybe not fully snapped out of it, because he doesn't respond to Dick saying his name, lengthening his stride the last few steps to the door like he's on the verge of breaking into a run.

Dick pushes through the door only two seconds behind him, but for a few heart-stopping moment he can't see him anywhere. He's just gone.

"Jay?" He calls, spinning around like Jason might appear from thin air. His eyes dart up to the roofline to see if there's a grapple or loose line, but again, nothing. Shit, shit, shit.

"Jason?' He calls louder, feeling his own worry condense inside his chest, breath creating a visible cloud of concern in the cold air, not quite panicked but getting there.

He hears Jason grunt in response and whips around to find him in the crouched low in the shadows against the building's stone and brick wall, head bowed, the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

How the hell did he miss him there…

Dick walks over and just…hovers, not knowing how to fix this particular brand of upset. Nothing actually happened, but Jason obviously was not prepared to see Bruce tonight. He probably wouldn't have come at all if he thought a reunion was a remote possibility. Dick doesn't know how to navigate this.

He's about to just crouch down with Jason, to just be with him as he has moment, but Jason suddenly surges up and grabs the front of Dick's coat, yanking Dick bodily towards himself, roughly turning to shove Dick's back against the wall.

He hits the wall with a grunt and has to tamp down hard on the urge to defend himself from what feels like an assault, hands flying out in an aborted counter-attack, and then Jason is just…kissing him, fiercely, the entire length of his body pressed against Dick like he's trying to escape himself, fingers clutching Dick's coat like a lifeline.

It's aggressive, teeth no doubt forming bruises, and Dick lets it happen, taking it in stride, knowing whatever is making Jason feel like he needs _this_ right now, it's still its own form of communication. Even as he's pressed harder into hard stone, compressed until it's a struggle to breathe.

He does his best to reciprocate, briefly matching Jason's intensity and then dialing it down, trying to turn their kiss more coaxing than anything, letting teeth become returned nips. Firm lips attempt to become softer, gentler in turn. Dick only letting him in slightly as to not let Jason devour him whole in whatever this state of mind is. He keeps his hands at his sides, not wanting to escalate this for so many reasons. Especially not when he's trying bring Jason back down.

Jason isn't having it at first, one hand coming up to bury itself in Dick's hair at the base of his head, not taking any chance at letting him pull away, the other dipping inside Dick's coat to grip at his hip hard enough to bruise, pulling Dick to himself and pushing him into the wall in turn, like there's any give in either direction.

He tightens his grip on Dick's hair, pulling at it while he licks into his mouth, sending an involuntary shiver down Dick's spine. Jason tastes like cigarettes and something else that's all his own. He was right that Dick doesn't usually mind the taste; he'll take Jason any way he can have him. But no…right now…

Dick's tactic doesn't seem to be working, because Jason just presses into Dick even harder, kissing him almost desperately, fingers digging into flesh, and Dick finally has to break away to breathe, fighting the hand cradling the base of his head to turn his face to the side, not wanting to push Jason away but needing to check in; they haven't done anything near this since that terrible night in Dick's apartment.

"Jason," he pants. "Wait." He's left his neck an open target and Jason attacks the flesh there, biting down hard and sucking at skin in what's going to be a deep bruise. Dick stifles a moan, vehemently reminding his body that this is not about him.

"Jason," he tries again, looking blearily up at the black-orange hue of the city-lit night sky, making himself focus. Jason just grabs Dick's nape and pulls his face back, lips meeting lips with a groan.

Words clearly aren't going to work here.

Hell.

Dick swallows his doubt before he can second-guess himself and throws himself back into the kiss with as much aggressive enthusiasm as Jason, licking his way into Jason's mouth, bringing his hands to Jason's hips and then course correcting to dig his own fingers into Jason's back, holding him tightly to himself with increasing pressure as he bites and sucks on Jason's lower lip.

He can tell Jason is thrown for a moment, maybe surprised, maybe overwhelmed; Dick doesn't usually kiss him like this, like he's battling for Jason's submission. Dick presses the advantage and slips a leg between Jason's, adding just the slightest grinding pressure before backing off hard.

It works, is the thing, because Jason finally hits pause, breaking away to pant shakily, eyes closed, his grappling hold on Dick remaining, one hand on Dick's shoulder now and the other on his hip, like he's telling Dick to _stay still_ , simultaneously saying _no more_ and _don't leave._

Dick immediately feels very wary he's crossed a line he didn't want to, watching Jason's face for any indication that he went too far in his attempt to overwhelm Jason into calmness. He lowers his hands to lightly rest on Jason's hips, outside his jacket, a stark contrast to Jason's grip, letting him know he's there but he's relinquishing control again.

Boundaries and hard lines are something he's going to have to have a long talk about with Jason later. 

"Jason…" Dick tries.

He shakes his head like _give me a minute,_ so Dick does. For a stretch it's just their quiet breathing forming visible puffs around them.

Jason seems to collect himself a little more after a few breaths, eyes remaining closed as he brings the hand on Dick's shoulder up to cup Dick's face by feel alone, still blocking out the visible world. When they meet, the difference is immediately apparent.

This kiss is a hundred times more gentle by comparison, and Dick dials it down even further despite what his body may want, guiding them from what now feels like a casual make-out to something that's slow and private and completely undemanding. He coaxes until Dick is kissing Jason more than he's reciprocating, lips pressed softly to Jason's again and again in long presses of comfort.

Eventually Jason pulls back to drop his forehead to Dick's shoulder with a groan. And then he stays there, his hold on Dick finally loosening.

Dick pats his back sympathetically, still breathing unevenly, admittedly more turned on than he wants to be right now. Jason makes a derisive noise against the material of Dick's coat, then stands straight, looking away like he's apologetic.

"Hey, none of that." Dick takes his face in his hands—finally allowing himself to touch—and tilts his face until Jason looks at him, trying to communicate reassurance.

When their gazes meet, he sees that Jason's eyes are tinted an unnatural green around his pupils.

It sparks its own little alarm bell in Dick's mind. He gently thumbs at the thin skin under his left eye. "That still happening?" he asks quietly. Jason didn't seem angry before, inside. Dick thought the green meant anger. Maybe it does and Jason just…suppressed it?

Jason doesn't answer, just closes his eyes and leans into Dick's hand with a resigned sigh. When he opens them after a long moment, the green has faded. They just look at each other, Dick holding Jason's face in his hands, Jason's hands on Dick's sides.

Jason gives him a sad sort of smile, one side of his mouth quirked, and Dick leans in to press one last kiss to his lips, chaste and sweet, letting the topic rest for now.

"Come on," Dick says, releasing Jason's face and reaching down to take Jason's hand. After a passing beat Jason relaxes his hand enough to intertwine their fingers and Dick leads him by the hand out of the shadows and through the parking lot, to his car.

He has to let go of his hand to open the passenger seat door, and leans down to lever the seat back so it's laying down before stepping back to let Jason get it. Jason gives him a look like he knows what Dick's doing—because it's blaringly obvious—but gets in anyway.

Dick shuts the door behind him and makes his way around the back of the car, subtly adjusting himself in his pants before climbing into the driver's seat and cranking the heat. He almost forgot that it was cold out, being blocked from the wind all pressed up against both Jason and the Old Academy's walls, and honestly more distracted than anything. But now they're both shivering as Dick pulls out onto the road.

At least, he hopes Jason is just shaking from cold. It seems to be the case enough when he relaxes with a sigh after about seven blocks later, when the engine is finally warm enough to kick the heat through the car. He's all laid out in the passenger seat, eyes drooping, but he sits up at a stop light to struggle out of his jacket in the awkward space. Dick helps him out by pulling at one of his sleeves, then shimmies out of his own coat, tossing it in the backseat and settling in for a longer drive.

He drives down Irving Street, a vague direction in mind, but no real destination.

"Do you normally drive in silence like a psychopath?" Jason asks absently a minute later, peering out the passenger window at the sky from his low angle.

Dick didn't even notice it was silent. The answer might be yes.

(And saying he listens to podcasts is probably not an acceptable alternative.)

"This is when I tell you I'm a serial killer, I guess."

"That joke is old."

"Hm, I must be losing my touch. Good thing I have youths like you around to keep my humor fresh."

"You've got the wrong guy for that. Try Harper. He likes pop culture shit."

"When he gets back, sure thing," Dick says, amused, fiddling with the radio until he finds something soft and folksy.

"You really are trying to put me out, huh?"

"Yes, I didn't think I was being subtle." Dick reaches back blindly with one hand to grab his discarded coat and then lays it over Jason as a makeshift blanket, tucking it around him by feel without taking his eyes off the road.

They pull up to another stop light, the one that leads on to the expressway, and Dick looks over to catch Jason just looking at him, unashamed to have been caught staring…and determinedly not asleep. Dick makes a face at him, one of faux reproach, but Jason gives him that echo of a smile again, a little sad, and maybe a little wistful.

"Hey," Dick asks in a hushed tone, "what is it?"

"Just…thanks." Jason says, looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he might be memorizing a dream.

Dick hums, reaching over cup Jason's face with his right hand in physical response, thumb brushing his cheek. The stoplight turns green and Dick gently swipes his hand down Jason's face, closing his eyes for him before returning his own hand to the wheel.

"Go to sleep, Jay. I'll drive for a while." 

Dick gets on the highway and as predicted, Jason is soon lulled to sleep, unable to fight it any longer. He doesn't twitch.

—

Dick follows the highway for miles, across the length of city, enjoying the rare and uncomplicated curve of a single road. Eventually he exits to merge onto a county crossroad and follows that stretch as well.

He peeks at Jason occasionally, and is hit with how incredibly adorable he is, tucked under Dick's coat. He's _attractive_ all the time, of course. But right now, he's specifically and especially fucking adorable.

Dick has an unprompted thought of how this might be what's it's like to drive around a baby until they fall asleep. It makes him snort to himself, knowing full well Jason would hate that comparison.

He drives until there's no more towering buildings or grappling ledges for miles. Until the light pollution starts to fade as city bleeds into country. He drives until they're the only car on the road and the silhouettes of trees and snow-covered farms graze the rolling hills, the kitchen windows of these passing dwellings lit up like candles in the distance. Until it's just Jason and him, soft dreams and the safety of being a moving target.

The music plays softly in the car, and Jason rests, and Dick is…happy. Not in the usual way, maybe, but happy like serenity has given way to clarity. Like a deep breath and long, releasing sigh. Like contentment has settled into his bones.

He drives until he can see stars.

Jason wakes when Dick is finally turning the car around to head back towards the city, a quicker breath clueing him in, different from the steady ones of before. It's followed by a single hum, and then Jason does a full-body stretch, complete with the accompanied stretch-groan, before slumping back with a sigh.

"Feel better?"

"Hn."

"I got lots of really cute pictures of you sleeping."

Dick glances over in time to see the flat, unamused look Jason is giving him.

"And a nice recording of you snoring, " he adds, smiling.

"I don't snore," Jason mumbles. "Gonna have to try harder than that."

"…you drool."

"…shut up," Jason says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, making Dick chuckle at his own win.

"Where are we?" Jason asks, levering up his seat into a normal seated position, peering out the window.

"Somewhere in the country."

"Oh…" he thoughtfully supplies. And then he goes and says, quietly, "I haven't seen the stars in…a long time."

Dick reaches over press the button that opens the sunroof cover in his car, letting him see the stars above as well. Jason doesn't say anything else, just looks out the glass of the sunroof as Dick steers them back home.

After a few minutes, Jason reaches for Dick's right hand where it rests on the console, and Dick folds his hand into Jason's like it's the most natural thing in the world. If he's elated that Jason is initiating small affections, he keeps it to himself.

They drive back looking at the light of the stars bleed into the lights of the city. It feels like a good night, in Dick's book. A good date, maybe.

The spell breaks when they get back to the city, and Dick refuses to think of that as a metaphor, content enough to recall tonight's memory, not feeling the need to impossibly grasp at this feeling. He knows these moments are fleeting as it is so he might as well enjoy them as they are. Mostly, though, the spell is broken because they're both hungry and they start debating the merits of late night cuisines by the time they hit 14th street.

They settle on burgers, but then a second round of debating ensues about whether Frank's or The Nook has better burgers. They naturally each have to get a burger at both of them to compare. Dick forgets who wins, the debate forgotten once they've started eating and the conversation turns back to the animal fight debate that Steph brought up earlier.

Dick still likes the hawks.

"So, was it as bad as you thought?" Dick asks, referring Cass's ballet. Hopefully Jason discounts Bruce showing up in his answer because Dick thought it was pretty nice up until then. Not that Bruce could have guessed that his presence would cause…whatever it caused.

Jason hums noncommittally, holding off his answer as he chews on the last remains of his second burger as Dick drives them back to the theater so Jason can get his bike. "I've always liked Barbie. Steph's funny. Puts Drake in his place."

"That she does," Dick chuckles.

—

He pulls up to Jason's bike, the only thing left parked in the now empty lot.

Right before Jason gets out, Dick debates with himself before opening his mouth and saying, "So… I should mention. I told Bruce about us."

Jason stares at him with dead eyes, one hand on the door handle.

“Jason?”

"…."

"Ja—"

“Be quiet. I’m praying for the strength not to murder you.”

Dick grimaces, giving him an apologetic smile. "I—"

"You…" Jason interrupts, drawing out each phrase. "…are you going to owe me… for a very long time."

“Yeah,” Dick agrees, happy that he's being offered _a long time_ to make it up. He might as well jump in with both feet. "I should also tell you…I also told Tim."

"….."

"…. whoops?"

" _OhmyGod._ " Jason covers his face with a palm, muttering to himself, " _Don't kill him, don't kill him, don't kill him._ " Then louder, says to Dick, "So do you actually _want_ me to kill you tonight, though? If this is a weird kink thing I'd like to veto it now."

"Not a kink thing. Just something that happened. Twice," he concedes. "I really am sorry. I should have told you earlier. Or asked."

Jason sighs heavily. "It's… fine," he begrudgingly lands on. "You owe me. But it's… fine. It… might make something easier, even."

"Something?""

"Just…" another exasperated, resigned noise. "That thing I mentioned to you earlier."

"About an investment?"

"Kind of. I don't—we can talk about it later."

"Okay."

"So B and the replacement know," Jason repeats slowly, almost to himself. "What did you tell them?"

"Just that I like you, mostly."

"Oh…" he processes. "Well, I like you. Too."

Dick snorts. Jason seems have be taking this news loads better than he was expecting. The news that two members of the bat family—the ones that are his greatest emotional triggers—know about them. Bruce, Tim, and…oh.

"Also Babs knows," Dick blurts out. What's one more.

Jason, of all things, laughs. "You really don't know how to not talk, huh?"

"I didn't actually tell her. She just kind of, knew." Before Dick did, probably.

Jason gives him a look like _what the fuck am I going to do with you._

_What the fuck indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the meme they are all talking about lol. Me and my siblings spent way too long debating this. 
> 
> The real joke is on me because this whole recital/driving scene was the original ending after I wrote the first scene but then this thing grew plot and a 10,000 word outline. Ha! 
> 
> Whoever wanted more Tim, the next one's for you. Also more whump, fights, and smut coming down the barrel...now I just have to write the scenes that connect the scenes I've written. 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3 Love you, my darlings.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah?”
> 
> "Uh…" Tim forgets what he was going to say at the sight of Jason's Todd's face, currently covered in wet, grayish goop, layered on top of his always-present scowl. He’s standing in the doorframe to Dick's apartment. Where Tim came. To talk to Dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Tim time, and then a little sweet smut (but not with Tim).

“Yeah?”

"Uh…" Tim forgets what he was going to say at the sight of Jason's Todd's face, currently covered in wet, grayish goop, layered on top of his always-present scowl. He’s standing in the doorframe to Dick's apartment. Where Tim came. To talk to Dick.

He's still not used to Jason being part of the package. He's definitely not used to seeing Todd looking like he just stepped out of a spa.

"Do you need something?"

"Jay? Who is it?" Dick calls from inside.

Jason doesn't answer, just turns with a sigh and reenters the apartment, leaving the door open for Tim.

Tim follows.

"Tim! Hey, come in. What's up?" Dick also has some mud mask on his face—probably Dick's idea in the first place—visible from across the apartment where he sits in middle of a one of the couches, feet propped up on a coffee table, dressed in sweatpants, socks, and a sweatshirt. Jason has returned to the stove he had apparently abandoned, turning the flame back up on a pot of something-or-other.

It's a bizarre domestic scene.

"Hey. I came to give you those reports you wanted." Tim holds up the inch thick manila folder for Dick to see. "This a bad time?" He resists looking towards Todd.

"Nope, this is a great time." He makes _gimme_ motions with his hands, and Tim slips off his shoes—next to Jason's boots—before making his way around the kitchen island and into the living room to hand Dick the folder.

He sits on the adjacent couch with a sigh, letting Dick sift through the first couple of pages. The apartment smells nice. Like garlic. His stomach gurgles quietly, reminding him that it is about dinner time.

The place is pretty spacious for it just being Dick, all modern lines and huge windows, but it also speaks to Alfred's touch: furniture chosen with particular care and deceivingly understated to fit the atmosphere, unlike Bruce’s more heavy, traditional décor. It's broken up with serendipitously placed knick-knacks that are all Dick; an old circus poster, a collection of batman mugs on an open kitchen shelf, a small golden statue of hand forever giving the world the bird, no doubt pilfered from some oddity antique shop with one Barbara Gordon.

"This is good," Dick says, bending the papers and thumbing down the edge of the pile to peek at the rest of its contents.

"I know," Tim says simply.

"Seriously, Tim, thank you. This is going to be integral when trials roll around."

"Here."

They both look up at the interruption to find Jason holding two steaming bowls of tortellini pasta at the edge of the living room, his face now clear of the facial goop—probably washed off in the kitchen sink. He looks a little grumpy, but Tim is starting to wonder if that's just his face.

Dick closes the folder and levers himself up from the couch, moving across the room to take both bowls. "Thanks, babe," he murmurs, like that's normal, which Tim guesses it is now, then walks over to hand one to Tim. Dick sets his own on the coffee table and dips down the hall with a "be right back," presumably to wash his own face off.

It leaves Tim and Jason alone. Jason promptly turns back to the kitchen to serve himself a bowl.

"Yeah. Thanks for the food, babe." Tim echoes quietly, half in amusement and half because he can't resist pressing buttons in this strange new situation within the relative safety of Dick's apartment.

Jason just pulls out a stool at the island and sits. "Shut up," he says, "And eat your fucking food." He stabs at a tortellini.

Tim hides his grin. The food is amazing. He wasn't expecting a meal. Dick normally eats like it's a job, frozen meals mechanically shoveled into a hungry mouth every few hours like it’s fuel to replenish. Someone who cooks could be good for Dick. Not that Tim would tell him that.

They don't talk any more, both unwilling to destroy the relative peace. Not until Dick comes back with a clean face and talks enough for the both of them, dressed now in some casual civvies. He scarfs down his pasta and doesn't ask Tim any more specifics about the file besides if there's digital copies, to which the answer is yes, but that they're triple encrypted on a personal server. It's as analog as he can get, not wanting them to end up in the wrong hands, but unwilling to not have backups after the amount of time he spent gathering this specific witness and evidence list.

And then Dick is looking for his shoes and his keys, file in hand, like he has somewhere to go, and Tim thinks he better make his own exit before he's left alone here with Todd for real.

Things have. . . shifted, maybe, since the brownstone and the recital. His own frustration has curbed since Bruce has been back lead patrol, but nothing major has changed. He still thinks it's unsustainable, the way things are.

Todd is also watching Dick flit around, and when Dick dips back into his bedroom to find a coat, Jason stalks after him, followed by a whispered argument that Tim can't catch heads or tails of. He takes the opportunity to put his bowl in the sink and slip his shoes on. Dick comes back out, coat apparently found, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his face like he's amused at Todd's antics.

"I know what you’re doing!" Jason calls out after him. "It’s not cute!"

"Don’t be a baby, it'll be fine," he shoots back, then to Tim: "I'm headed over to meet with Amy. We want to get a jump on this before anyone else can."

"She still good?" He knows that they regularly have to weed out cops being bribed, blackmailed, or otherwise corrupted.

"The best. Thanks again." He pats Tim's shoulder, then releases him to reach for the door handle. "See you soon, yeah?"

Dick's tone is too casual, which lets Tim know he's up to something. Then there's the fact that Dick is an impeccable actor, which means Dick knows he's letting _Tim_ know he's up to something. Something that has everything to do with the fact that he's pushing past Tim in what's a rushed goodbye for Dick. Tim just says, "Yep."

Jason sighs heavily behind him, and Tim turns to see him standing just shy of the hallway's threshold, his jacket now on, holding his own manila folder, with an albeit much smaller pile of papers than the one Dick just left with. Tim wonders a little hysterically if they shop for office supplies at the same place.

Jason looks bigger than he did a few seconds ago, before Dick left. "Finally alone," Tim says stupidly, laughing a little in a way that comes out sounding nervous.

Jason silently contemplates him for a moment. "Dick says you like coffee."

"Yeah?"

"Come on."

It doesn't sound like a request he can or should refuse. Dick did just corner them together. When Jason shoves his boots on and walks out the door, Tim follows.

—

"You want to start a charity?"

"It’s not a charity," Todd says. "It’s a non-profit."

They're sitting in a quiet diner down the block in a booth by the window, which still counts as being in public. Public is good. Tim can work with public. The sun has already set outside. They're waiting for their order of black coffee and tea to be delivered to their booth, and Tim is looking at the first page of papers that Jason has pushed across the table.

Sure enough, another glance at the paper tells him Todd hasn't tried to register whatever this is as a charity yet. What this _is_ looks like a business plan for some kind of extended outreach program to be built in his territory of Gotham.

Huh.

He can't help but immediately be suspicious.

"Okay. So is this supposed to be a front for one of your operations?”

Jason snorts. "Do you think I'd say yes if it was?"

"I like to give room for honesty. And I'm pretty good at telling when people are lying."

"Well I'm a pretty good liar," Jason counters, deadpan. "But, no, it's not a front." He looks like he's chewing something over before adding, "I… would like your assistance on a couple things." He says it like he’s tasting the edges of the idea.

Tim doesn't say anything, taking his time to search Todd's face and body language for any sign of deception. No change in tone, no indicative movements. He's holding himself more tensely than he was in Dick's apartment, but that seems in character for someone like Jason asking for help.

He takes so long that Jason eventually breaks, barely concealing an eyeroll with a glare before impatiently asking, "Well?"

Tim takes another long second to search Todd's eyes, one then the other. "Okay," he says, satisfied enough. "But what would you even need from me?"

What he needs, it turns out, is a more involved role than he was anticipating.

He wants Tim to pitch this to Bruce for him.

"Not for me. _With_ me," Jason says. "This thing needs to be clean." He reaches across the table and shimmies out a couple pieces of paper from the pile, then hands them to Tim. "And I need you to verify that this is accurate."

Tim looks down at the first paper. It looks like cost projections for different areas of specialty, including possible contacts for internships and programs for skill training. There's housing managers, counselors, education advisors, simple financial advisors, and the list continues. This is a big project.

The second page is also numbers and abbreviated categories. It almost looks like…

"Is this a _budget_?"

Jason gives him a puzzled look. "I thought you were into finance stuff," like Tim should know what he's looking at, which is definitely an itemized expenditure tracker.

"I meant," Tim emphasizes, "Do you really budget all of your…" He looks around before stage whispering, " _trading_?"

Jason snorts. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Just seems weird. That you track this."

"Well my accountant does most of it."

"You have an _accountant_? Then why the hell are you having me do this."

"I already told you, it needs to be clean."

He means he can't siphon drug money directly into his outreach program without a third party.

"Why don't you ask the bank for a loan?"

Jason gives him a flat look, and when Tim just stares at him in confusion, he points to himself and says, "Dead."

"…oh."

"Yeah."

"… you could use a fake identity."

Jason sighs, sitting back against the booth. "I could."

He doesn't say anything more. "But?" Tim prompts.

"But," Jason says. He taps distractedly on the table a few times with his finger, gaze lowered enough that Tim can't tell what he's thinking. "It would have the best chance with the Wayne reputation backing it."

Tim lets that sink in. It's a reputation that Jason would have access to automatically if things were different.

"You know he could set this up himself somewhere else in Gotham and fund it."

"Then I'd figure it out myself, I don't fucking know," Jason says. Then: "Look, if you break down the percentage of unemployment and employment, my territory has the biggest discrepancy." He reaches out and just pushes the pile to the side, spreading papers across the table in front of Tim. He continues, "Not only is unemployment fucking skyrocketing, you have to be applying for work to file for unemployment. So when compared to the census, you get _this_ percentage of adults who are neither employed nor counted in unemployment." He points to a number, highlighted in pink.

It's a high number. Higher than it should be. "I'm assuming these uncounted people aren't all dependents," he says.

"My borough has the highest level of gang recruitment," Jason says by way of answering. And it is an answer. "It also has the highest levels of chronic unemployment. It makes sense to build this there, and I have the funds."

"And you put this all together?" He doesn't mean for it to come out disbelieving.

The response is a laugh, a single bark. "Hell no. Gotham University has been tracking this kind of stuff for years. I trust them a lot fucking more than some of the government agencies around here. So has NYU. They did a comparative study." He points at another paper, also notated. He is going to need help cleaning these up before they talk to Bruce.

Tim was expecting the numbers to at least be within range of New York and Chicago. It's worse. By a lot. Even more than Detroit. "That's… bad."

"Yep."

"I knew it was bad…" He trails off, because he didn't. Not really. He's used to Gotham being what it is, and he's never looked at the stats like this. He just assumed it was similar in other large cities. Tim is looking at the pages of comparative line graphs over time. There's also separate graphs of the crime rates and type of crimes. It occurs to him with great irony that Jason contributes to several of these categories.

Then again, vigilantism is also technically a crime.

The waitress shows up then to deliver their drinks, an older dark-skinned woman with a warm voice who has a charming affinity for calling customers 'sweetie' and 'sugar.' Tim shifts the papers to make room for two cups, and they both thank her. Todd says something good-natured to her, borderline flirtatious, and it makes her laugh and pat his arm before she saunters away.

He sounds more personable than Tim's every heard him. 

Tim turns his attention back to the papers.

He knows that increases of unemployment doesn't typically mean there will be an excess increase of violent crime, but apparently Gotham is special. Not all cities have a gallery of meta-humans awaiting their next jailbreak, and not all cities have gangs rushing in to increase their numbers and take over the space left by arrested mafia members.

Members that hopefully stay arrested, if Tim's research for Dick is going to be put to use.

This project is a good idea, even if Gotham was a run-of-the mill city with goddamn normal crime occurrences. He doesn't think they have many multi-faceted programs like this. Tim knows he didn't see many like this when he was more involved in Wayne Enterprises—and by extension Wayne Foundation.

He takes in the spread of papers. It'll probably need to start small, and partner with existing programs as it grows, but it's doable.

If Bruce agrees to back it.

It's not like his adopted crime lord son can just show up with an outreach program and not get questioned, anyway. Even if he doesn't need the money, if Jason wants this to be associated with Wayne Foundation he was always going to need to talk to Bruce.

Tim wonders hazily if Jason is going to pay taxes on his earnings. The thought makes something click, an obvious thought occurring to him.

"You want this to be sustainable," Tim says. It means more than it sounds, and Tim knows he's right. Jason wants this to last, and he knows his own position won't last forever. He needs backing for when things inevitably blow up and he doesn’t have endless funds. It makes Tim appreciate the rare foresight he's exhibiting, though he anticipates that when the time comes to prostrate himself to Bruce in person, it's not going to be as easy.

Tim hates losing to Bruce, even in a game, and he's on _good_ terms with the man.

"I do," Jason says.

Tim asks the question that's been on his mind since the first moment he realized what the folder contained, evened tone as he can.

"What are you prepared to give for this?"

Jason's eyes don't even flash, like Tim is expecting. Instead, he grins, an expression that inwardly startles Tim. "Does this mean you're in?"

Tim snorts at his smug, happy look, finding his own face mirroring Jason’s expression. He realizes he hasn't spent much time in the presence of Jason's bare face, let alone with any of his expressions that actually _express_. More than anger and bristling exhaustion, that is.

"Yeah, I'm in."

"I was hoping it would enough on its own to convince him.” Jason says, answering Tim's question.

"It might be," Tim concedes. He really doesn’t know. He thinks Bruce will try for more anyway, and he tells Jason as much.

"I'll think of something," he says simply.

"Cool, cool, cool. So, now for my price."

Jason rolls his eyes, but says, "Name your conditions, Replacement."

Tim and Jason talk business, haggling like they're in a tourist market, easily countering trinket prices and good-naturedly scoffing at the counteroffer, until Tim is satisfied with what he's getting in exchange for his time and help. And this will be taking time. To put together a cohesive presentation and plan out a meeting strategy.

"You've got three days."

"Good Lord," Tim says. He's got work to do. "You've already set a meeting time?"

"Three days," Todd repeats. He's not wasting time, no doubt using the added pressure of encroaching gangs as unspoken leverage with Bruce.

Tim is going to have to let Steph know he can't hang out tomorrow.

Papers re-stacked and re-filed for Tim to keep, there isn't much reason to keep lingering. They both have the same thought, because Todd pulls out his wallet and places some bills on the table under the edge of his mug.

"I've got it," he says. Tim doesn't argue.

They stand up to leave and that's when Tim spots a small, glistening spot above the collar of Jason's t-shirt on the side of his neck.

"You've got a little…" Tim gestures to the area.

Jason swipes his fingers over it and then looks at them. "Oh. It's just oil." He reaches for a napkin on the table.

And because Tim is not smartest not-smart person he knows, he says, "Does Dick normally lather you in oil and face masks?"

"He's been trying to help me sleep better." It’s an honest answer that Jason obviously did not mean to come out, his face immediately flushing despite the resultant descending scowl he aims at Tim.

Tim can't stop the shit-eating grin at seeing the Red Hood honest-to-god flustered.

"Get your mind out of the gutter. It's literally just a massage." He pushes past Tim to the door, and Tim follows again.

"Nope, _la la la la la_ ," he sing-songs over one of his hands covering an ear, the other occupied by the folder. "No, no thank you, I don't want any compromising details."

"No one's compromising anything." They're outside in the cold now.

Tim scoffs. "I already know Dick's compromised, or you would have asked him for help."

Jason looks at him at like he's seeing him, then huffs. "Yeah okay. Grayson is a little compromised." There's a small smirk dancing around the corners of his mouth.

"Once again, no thank you," Tim says, very determinedly not thinking about Dick and Todd involved in any massaging. "We want to go over this before we pitch to Bruce?"

Jason sighs. "Yeah. That'd be a good idea. I'll meet you at Dick's place in two days."

"Sounds good," Tim says. "Bye, then." He turns and starts walking back to his ride parked at Dick's, one folder exchanged for another in a few short hours. He needs to start charging a regular rate for these side projects he's given.

—

It's obvious that Dick is employing a string of strategic moves aimed solely at getting Jason to take naps.

It starts becoming a new routine. Jason comes over to Dick's apartment around dinner time, after Dick gets home. Jason cooks something for them from whatever is in Dick's fridge (or brings groceries as it became more and more clear that Dick survives off of frozen chicken alone). Then Dick inevitably does something that has Jason's eyelids drooping.

He'll tell Jason to go sit on the couch and then start turning off all the lights except one: the soft-glow lamp in the living room or the single pendant light above the sink. Or he'll pull the long curtains shut to block out light and turn on some droning news program. Or he'll lay a blanket over Jason's legs or simply toss one his way before cozying up with one of his own.

Or sometimes, he'll snuggle up with Jason until he can't easily extract himself and is stuck in the same comfortable spot until he fades out.

Jason doesn't notice until the third time something like that happens.

Dick must think he's real goddamn sneaky.

The fucking thing is, it kind of helps. Apparently he sleeps better when he’s not alone.

It's stupidly domestic, but hanging out for a couple hours every day is a huge reprieve from his days and his nights. There's a lot of chatter about how angry the Bertenelli's are about how their guys got busted at the dockyard, and they're going to be fucking pissed when they find out a lot of the charges are going to stick. The trial isn't for a while, and their lawyer is trouble, but Dick is pretty confident and apparently the prosecution already got some lawyer involved that Bruce knows. 

It's an open field day for gangs to fill in the gap created by a chunk of the mafia sitting in jail, and Jason can feel things ramping up.

He's tempted every day to take up Dick's offer again, let someone in to help. But Bruce is back, and he just…can't. Not yet. Not before he can put together his little project.

He has a feeling it would escalate things, anyway. As much as the bats tamp down on crime, they also seem to draw it out like a bead to a target. It would need to be worth the trade, and he needs to keep what leverage he can.

So Dick's place is a nice escape every day. It's not so different from how they hung out before, except for there's a lot less touching involved now. Dick pets his hair and coaxes tense muscles loose, but his touch never strays from simply easing tension, leaving Jason too limp and relaxed and sleepy to try anything, perfunctory and perfectly comforting.

It's starting to get on his nerves.

Jason said he didn't want to have full-on sex, not that he wanted to be a complete fucking prude.

He lets Dick know his frustration one evening when he pulls Dick to his bedroom after dinner instead of the couch, pushing him down into the mattress. Dick seems to hesitate before letting him, an ounce of resistance showing at the edge of the bed, but it passes after Jason follows him down and starts kissing him.

Jason can feel Dick's tension dissipate slowly as he lets Jason lay his weight on him, a knee slotted between his thighs, trying to show him that he's fine with this. He wants this. But Dick's still not _touching_ him, one hand laying by his side and the other tucked under the pillow by his head. After a minute, Dick pulls away, and Jason lets his head drop against his shoulder, suppressing a groan because he can tell Dick is backing off to fucking talk.

Sure enough, Dick says, "Hey. What do you want?"

"Whatever," Jason says, evading the question. He just wants more than this limbo of _nothing_. He doesn't know if they're dating or what, not having broached the subject again, but it doesn't fucking feel like it when Dick is determined to avoid every possible physical faux pas that doesn't even exist.

"Okay. What do you _not_ want?" He asks. "You said you didn't want to feel like you did last time. How can we make sure that doesn't happen?"

Jason does groans this time, softly banging his forehead against dicks collarbone. Dick laughs at him a little, one hand finally coming up pet his back over his shirt, then says, "It’s really important that I know how far is too far."

He's really not backing down from this. Jason mumbles nothing intelligible into Dick's shirt, then tilts his head to the side to sigh into his neck before opening his mouth to admit, "I don't know."

Dick is quiet for a moment. "Do you want to have sex?" he tries.

Jason freezes, he thought—

"See, that’s a no," Dick says, point made. "We're not having sex today." He kisses the top of Jason's head, quick and chaste. "That's perfectly fine."

"I want to just—-but I don't want—" Jason lets out frustrated sound, about to give up on the whole thing. Whatever. They can fucking sit on the couch and watch the news tonight.

He doesn't move to get up though, indulging himself in a drawn out moment of moping, breathing into the crook of Dick's neck, not wanting to peel away after five fucking minutes of accomplishing nothing.

Dick’s quiet like he's waiting for Jason to finish his sentence. When it's clear he's not going to, he asks, "Can I touch you?"

Jason huffs. _We're already touching,_ he doesn't say. "You don't have to fucking ask."

Dick doesn't answer that, doesn't argue with him right now, though Jason can tell he has something to say about that. For now, he takes Jason at his word and lets both hands come up to hold his waist, pressing there like he's telling him where his hands are before they slowly slide up his sides and then sweep outward along the expanse of his upper back, then back down in a soothing arc. The motion repeats itself, then slowly shifts, Dick's hands aimlessly roaming over his upper body, petting down his back, sliding soothingly down his arms. Jason allows the touch, soaking it up with half-lidded eyes, breathing into the small world created by the dip of Dick's collarbone.

Feather-light fingers brush along his nape, his throat, a thumb running along his jaw where it's tucked into Dick's chest, running along its shape until it reaches the curve of his chin, lingering there in small passes until it inevitable finds Jason's bottom lip, thumb pausing before brushing softly back and forth there as Jason's lips instinctively part, his breath catching a little at the barely-there touch. He can feel Dick swallow, hears the click of it, feels the shallow breath of the chest beneath him, and the hand reverses it's path, backing off.

Jason wets his lips, still parted like the soft, guiding fingers might return, but his mind becomes distracted when Dick's hand instead dips under the bottom hem of his shirt to run soothing patterns directly against his skin. Jason lets his eyes slip closed with a long, shuddering sigh.

He doesn't fall asleep but it's a near thing, jerking back minutes later when he realizes he's almost been lured into another nap.

"You fucking bastard," he says, pushing up from where he was near boneless on top of Dick. He sits his ass on the bed next to Dick's hip, legs crossed, and regards Dick with glowering, unamused stare.

Dick grins happily back at him, unperturbed, until Jason sighs and rubs at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for moment. When he opens his eyes, Dick is still looking at him, that stupid, soft grin still in place.

"Don't you want more than this?" Jason gestures vaguely between then, like he can depict the sexless state of Jason falling asleep on top of him. He's been reduced to being a weighted blanket.

Dick regards him more seriously for a moment. "What I want is for you to feel safe." He says it carefully, like he's thinking through what he wants to say. "I don't _need_ anything. I've got two working hands," he jokes with a half-smile, holding them up for Jason to see that there are indeed two of them, and they are indeed working.

"Well, I don't fucking do that," he mutters. He doesn't want to have nothing with Dick if he already doesn't bring himself off. Now he has Dick and like hell if he's going back zero just because he gets—what? A little apprehensive? Fuck that. 

"What do you mean?" Dick regards him from where he lays, eyebrows pinched in searching confusion, hands now resting on his own stomach. "You haven’t touched yourself since we…?"

Oh.

Fuck. He did not mean to bring attention to this.

"Since longer," he says in an even tone, not wanting Dick to think he's the reason why, but feeling his face get hotter as it dawns on him that it might've been a concerning thing to admit.

Because of course when Dick is making them _talk_ about this, asking about Jason's fucking boundaries, he's going to somehow let slip he hasn't _found release_ with himself for a long time.

"What do you want me to say? It's not like I’m gonna fucking jerk off on Roy’s couch." He doesn't mention that it's been since before he started crashing at Roy's. Fucking _way_ before.

"Do you not like to?"

"Ugh, I don’t want to talk about this." He crosses his arms, a knee shaking repetitively despite his pretzelled legs. "It’s not a big deal."

Dick chuckles at his defensiveness, but backtracks a little at Jason's glare to say, "No, hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed. I was just surprised." He sits up enough to pull at Jason. "Here, come here." Jason reluctantly lets himself be pulled back down, manhandled back on top of Dick, face wedged into his chest. Dick's hands pet his back again. "You sure you don’t want to talk about it?"

"Mm," he says, muffled against Dick's chest.

"I don’t know if that’s a yes or no."

He lifts his face. "Is it that weird?"

"Mm, not necessarily. I guess it depends why."

"Oh." He lets his head drop back down, not wanting to ask what Dick thinks it depends on, his face turned to the side again. He can hear Dick's heartbeat where his ear rests against his chest. 

Dick's still petting Jason's back, up and down in slow sweeps, not quite tickling.

"If you're asking if it’s normal to not, some people just aren’t into being touched that way at all. But… if you feel like it’s a problem for you, or if you do want to and touching seems—I don’t know—too much, sometimes. Well, that’s something we can work on."

"How."

"Trial and error, mostly. We can try things and if you don’t like them we know that’s a boundary. And you can decide if that’s a _never again_ , or a _not right now_."

Jason doesn’t answer, thinking about what kind of things they'd be able to try between making out and sex. There's a lot, obviously, but he keeps coming back to that feeling on that night, his panic bleeding into resigned hopelessness. He'd rather not journey at all into any error territory.

He's the one who's pushing for more, though. He _wants_ more. And it's not like they didn't do some things before. It takes a moment to identify what the tension in his stomach is. He's actually nervous about doing anything. He doesn't want to be fucking nervous about this.

Dick lets him have his silence for a while, rubbing his back, his heart a steady time-keeper for Jason. Eventually Dick says, “I’m not trying to convince you to try anything. I’m happy with this.” He squeezes Jason with both arms to emphasize his point, which makes Jason grunt and Dick laugh in response. He then lets him go, straightening out where Jason's shirt rode up before returning to his slow sweeps.

"But you do, right?"

"Do what?"

"Touch yourself."

That earns him a startled huff, but Dick says honestly, "Yeah, I do."

Jason brings his hand up to traces a finger along Dick's upper pec through his cotton t-shirt. It’s a soft, muted blue. A dark pastel. A bandage peeks out from one of the sleeves, where Dick got cut earlier this week. "What do you like?"

"I like a little bit of everything. Do you want a list?" Dick's voice betrays his glinting grin, hinting at the flirtatious version of himself that's been mostly absent recently, especially when paired with touching.

Jason doesn't call him easy, like he might've. Instead he says, impossibly simple, "I just want to touch you, today."

"You can touch me. I’ll tell you if I don’t want something. Okay?" He says it like he’s asking Jason to do the same.

Jason hums, his fingers already dipping under the hem of Dick's shirt to meet the smooth skin of his taut abs. He lets his hand roam, not trying to escalate things so much that Dick stops him right away, just enjoying Dick's breath start to go shallow again as he traces fingers along the planes of his stomach, feeling the muscles clench involuntarily when he brushes over certain areas. He runs a fingertip along the waistline of his sweatpants. He can feel Dick's breath hitch, but he doesn't move, letting Jason explore.

Jason draws back, pulling his hand out of Dick's shirt to partially push himself up until he's leaning over Dick, who's looking back at him with dark eyes, sprawled lazily against the bedcover like he's got all the time in the world.

It makes his chest ache. It also won't do.

"Kiss me." Jason says, already leaning down to claim Dick's lips, and Dick doesn't push him away this time, instead twining his arms around his neck, a hand buried in his hair. It gives Jason more room to explore, his hand dipping into Dick's shirt again, feeling the muscled planes of his abdomen. A thumb brushes against a pert nipple, and Dick's breath stutters. Jason smiles into the kiss. Dick dips his tongue into Jason's parted lips.

It's still not enough.

Jason pushes up and then pulls at Dick to sit up. He comes willingly, malleable, not questioning him. Jason tugs at Dick's shirt, affronted that it's blocking so much skin. "Off."

Dick immediately reaches back to pull his shirt over his head. When his face reappears from the depths of the cloth he has a faint smile on his face, like he's amused at Jason ordering him around. It makes Jason narrow his eyes, reaching out with both hands to shove him backwards, where he falls back to the bed with a laugh.

Jason follows him back down and shuts him up with his lips, planting a knee between his thighs and shifting his weight forward to press into him, elbows planted on either side of Dick. He is rewarded with a shudder of Dick's body, Dick's hands coming up to grasp at his shoulders. Jason pulls back a moment later to ask, "Something funny, Grayson?"

"Nope," he says quietly, breathless, already pulling Jason back to capture his lips again.

God, can Dick kiss.

Without breaking away, Jason shifts his weight so he can continue touching Dick's body, all his smooth skin and those few faint scars. He reaches down to pull Dick's clothed thigh up around his own waist, feeling along the firm flex of muscle there. He can feel where Dick's pressed up against him. Can feel his own responding arousal, like an afterthought.

The hands are back, running up and down Jason's sides, determinedly unrushed, a thumb catching a sliver of skin at his hip that makes a shiver zing up Jason's spine. Dick digs a thumb into the muscle by his shoulder blade and he has to break away to pant into Dick's neck. Dick's not the only one whose breath has gone shallow.

He fucking loves this. He can't remember why he was nervous.

His hand has wandered back to Dick's stomach and he lets his weight shift again, giving his hand room to travel down, hitting the edge of Dick's sweats. He only hesitates for a moment before dipping his fingertips under the waistband in search of new, unexplored skin.

Dick goes absolutely still. Jason pauses, waiting for Dick to push him away. But he doesn't, and when Jason dares look up he meets Dick's gaze; eyes wide and dark, full lips parted. Jason doesn't look away, ignoring the feeling of too-much, hand traveling further to wrap around hot silk.

Dick lets out a sound like he's being partially strangled; a very encouraging sound that sends a shock through Jason's body.

He removes his hand to tugs at Dick's pants. "Off."

"Y-yeah. Yes."

Jason is already sitting back, moving down the bed to pull them down over flexing thighs. Dick lifts his hips to help, lowering them as Jason pulls all offending material completely free of his legs. And then Dick's naked, not looking vulnerable at all under Jason's clothed gaze, just comfortable and happy and extremely turned on and—

Dick laughs at the look on his face, and Jason crawls back up, smiling as he settles between the firm, naked thighs that come up around his waist, planting his weight on an elbow. He cups the side of Dick's face and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, then another, until Dick's lips part and lets it deepen into something more.

Dick's obviously not in a rush, arms twining around Jason's neck again, and Jason gives him his languid enjoyment. There's nothing to stop his hand from finding his way back down his body this time as he takes his hard length into hand, pressing a thumb into the slit, rubbing the responding wetness back into his skin before giving him a firm stroke. Dick makes a noise like he's dying, breaking away from their kiss to take a shuddering breath, eyes pinched tightly shut.

Jason does it again, and Dick's grip tightens around his neck like he needs to hold on to something, forcing Jason's head further down, nose tucked into the space behind Dick's jaw. He plants a kiss there and does it again, adding a twist at the top, and Dick makes another stomach-clenching noise of encouragement.

"You're leaking," Jason tells him. "You like this."

"Oh my God," Dick laughs, though Jason can tell it's mostly at his own reaction. Or maybe that they’re doing anything like this at all. Jason gives him another couple of strokes and Dick makes more delicious, shocked sounds. "More," he pants.

Jason shudders at Dick's tone and his grip becomes firmer, the edge of his thumb pressing into the bottom of the sensitive head every few strokes. He give him a dozen more fast strokes, then changes back to languid pace, the rough pad of his thumb circling the slit, pressing into it. Dick rocks his hips up helplessly in response, like he can't keep them still any longer. Jason lets him. He'd laugh in wonderment if he weren't so fucking breathless. 

_"Kiss me."_

Jason does, lips and teeth and tongue taking on a desperate edge, both of them panting as Jason quickens his hand and feels the pleasure build in the body beneath him, echoing in his own body. 

Dick shudders hard, breaking away again to pant, and Jason pulls back to look down the length of his lithe body, not letting up, hand tightening briefly around Dick's cock.

"Oh god. _Jason._ "

Dick shudders again, then _seizes_ , body pulled taut, his fingers digging hard into Jason's shoulders. Jason watches mesmerized as muscles of Dick's stomach clench, as Dick makes a sound that sends a shock through Jason's whole body. He glances up at Dick's face and meets his hot gaze, dark eyes already looking at him from a flushed face, lips parted. He doesn't look away.

He strokes him through it and then some, until Dick grasps his wrist, gasping laughing at his shuddering torture, still dealing with the aftershocks. He pulls Jason's hand away, thumb brushing against his inner wrist, letting his grip soften and linger loosely around his wrist, breathing like he ran a marathon.

Jason can't stop the corners of his mouth from tugging up, sitting back with Dick's thighs resting on his own, letting Dick keep his wrist for safeguarding against him doing anything more. Dick has an arm thrown over his face, panting as he comes down. There's white on those firm abs he was tracing earlier, and he runs a dry finger through it in fascination. He did that to Dick.

Looking at Dick's bare body—at the evidence of what they did— has a sense of giddiness rushing through him, a high that leaves him dizzy, like he's standing on a precipice with no fear of falling himself. 

"You're really proud of yourself, huh? You turned me into a puddle."

He looks up to see Dick's easy smile, his relaxed gaze watching him from where his hair is sprawled against his pillow. The same pillow where Jason laid not that long ago and nearly messed everything up in a single night. He realizes he's smiling back, a large grin he can't stop and doesn't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason: touch me goddamnit  
> Jason: nevermind I'll touch you  
> Dick: can we take that nap now?
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're in a sports bar waiting for Bruce, Tim with a cold glass of coke and Jason with his tea again. Sitting across the table from each other, it's not too different of a set up from the diner they sat at a few days ago, except this booth has open ends on either side.

They're in a sports bar waiting for Bruce, Tim with a cold glass of coke and Jason with his tea again. Sitting across the table from each other, it's not too different of a set up from the diner they sat at a few days ago, except this booth has open ends on either side.

It's not the best of sightlines, but Tim didn't want to be stuck in a wall booth behind Jason, and he definitely didn't want to be in his direct line of escape, so here they are. He'll move seats as soon as Bruce gets here. He'd be fine sitting next to Bruce, but then they'd both be facing Todd and something about that feels wrong. He's supposed to help pitch Jason's plans and it makes sense to be on his side of the table.

He's probably overthinking things. He swirls his coke with his straw and glances up.

"You going to stay calm?" Tim says to break the silence, only half-joking. 

Jason doesn't look up from where he's reviewing the contents of his folder, papers stacked uniformly atop the sticky table. It feels like a long time before he answers in a limpid tone, "Probably."

Then again, maybe Tim has thought things through the perfect amount.

Neither of them say anything for the next few minutes, listening to the din of early diners. It's mid-afternoon, not too busy. Still busy enough to be public, which seems to be a theme with these places Todd keeps picking.

He assumes this specific place was picked because of its dimmed lighting and the consistent noise level of the numerous televisions playing, all tuned to some sporting event. No one is going to get distracted by billionaire Bruce Wayne when their attention is enraptured with sweaty men running back and forth throwing some sort of ball.

It helps that the bar is also neither seedy nor classy, which means no one there has an agenda that extends past ordering chicken wings. It has medium ratings and it's not a chain bar, so out-of-town visitors are unlikely to crowd in. And it's early enough that no one is out on the prowl for a one night stand with one scowling, formerly homicidal delinquent with an apparent heart of gold, or with one billionaire with an apparent affinity for nocturnal animals and collecting orphans...both highly unavailable in their own ways.

No thank you, Tim does not need to see that today.

Maybe on another day when he can watch a failed flirtation from far away and take blackmail pictures to send to magazines. (Except he saw a tabloid recently call Bruce a _debonaire daddy_ and he just about burned the magazine stand down.)

It's a good thing they left Dick behind. It seems like he's unable to avoid attention even if he tries.

Tim takes a lazy sip of his soda, fiddling with the straw between his teeth, and takes a moment to study Jason's frame for any indications of how he thinks this meeting will go.

He hasn't touched his tea.

Bruce arrives with little fanfare, spotting them and making his way over, shrugging out of his tailored coat, and Tim slides out of the booth to slide back in on Jason's side, who gives him a strange look. The waitress comes over immediately, probably smelling money from Bruce's business wear alone, and he takes a single glance at the menu before handing it back and ordering a ginger ale. 

Then it's just them, relatively alone.

Bruce rests his forearms on the edge of table and massages his palm with the apex of his other thumb. "Jason, you look well," he says, though Tim thinks that's not entirely true. Better than that night of the recital, he supposes. Bruce twists his wrists to adjust the cuffs of his shirt, settling in. "Tim, Alfred tells me you've already met your caffeine quota for today." He raises an eyebrow at Tim's drink, which Tim promptly pulls across the table to himself. 

"Sleep is for the weak," Tim says, ignoring the weird tension between the other two in lieu of taking another sip. Sweet sweet caffeine. 

Bruce snorts at him, then looks back to Jason, hands resting on the table now. "Tim has already mentioned enough that I'm definitely interested. Let's hear about this project."

Jason, who hasn't moved since Bruce came in, breathes in slowly and then starts speaking clearly and without hesitancy or preamble, explaining what it is he'd like to do, what the timetable looks like, what resources they'll need, all with the accompanying respective data outlined in writing, all verified by Tim, who occasionally confirms a number verbally.

At some point the waitress discreetly places Bruce's drink on the table and moves on, picking up on the atmosphere at odds with the environment.

Jason keeps talking to Bruce like he's a professional stranger. Bruce mostly listens, his face impassive and neutral as stone even to Tim's keen eye, and it's disconcerting to not know what he's thinking.

When he does eventually interrupt, it's to open his mouth and calmly ask Jason: "How do I know you would have enough time and energy to start and run this while acting as the sole protector of your borough?"

That's a calibrated question if Tim's ever heard one.

"Why would you do nothing when there’s this opportunity to help Gotham and bolster your support among Gotham’s affluent with little cost to yourself?" Jason responds, just as calmly.

They're both silent, Bruce regarding Jason as an equal opponent and Jason, still and steady as death.

Tim shifts in his seat, inwardly squirming despite the weight of Bruce's gaze not being aimed at himself. The movement breaks Bruce's stare as he glances over at Tim. His face gives nothing away, not anger or calculation, though Tim can feel how this moment has shifted a presentation into a negotiation, the tension spiking.

It's distinctly surreal being on this side of the table.

"Let’s set aside any tit-for-tat for a minute," Bruce says, tearing his gaze away to rest on Todd again. "Let’s talk about what the scale of growth looks like. You have numbers for that?" He turns his hand palm up from where it already rests on the table, like an aborted reach or an offer awaiting acceptance.

Jason picks up a stack of clipped papers and hands them across the gulf of the table. Tim watches both of them, taking another sip of his drink as he pretends not to notice Jason shutting his eyes briefly—too long to be a blink—and breathing slightly deeper on his next inhale. Pretends he doesn't see Jason's fingers flex open on his thigh in Tim's periphery.

He lets his eyes meander back to Bruce, who seems absorbed in the projections Tim put together. 

He ran those numbers based on other similar organizations in comparable demographics in other cities around the country, with some obvious calculated cushion added to them because it’s Gotham. He knows they are as close to accurate as possible, and he hopes it's enough to appease Bruce's scrutiny.

"Tim?"

It's Todd who interrupts his thoughts. He can't remember if it's the first time he's called Tim by his first name, as foreign as it sounds coming out of his mouth. He realizes after a pause that it was a prompt.

 _Right._ He immediately chimes in about the data, how it was sourced, verifying that what he thinks about the shorter term scalability and longevity. 

Of course, Bruce then circles back to his concerns after his little tactical segue of information delay.

"Thank you, Tim. This is admirable project, one that I'm definitely going to consider," he says. He leans back on his side of the booth. "But I still need to know how you're planning on managing this yourself."

"Do you so clearly doubt my capabilities?" Jason says.

"No. You're extremely competent when you're not on the verge of another gang war, overworked, betrayed to the mafia by one of your own men, or otherwise indisposed by Catwoman. If you want me to present this to the board at the foundation, then I genuinely need to know how you're going to make the time for this."

There's a tick in Jason's jaw, and he doesn’t look at Tim when he takes a controlled breath.

Tim hopes he knows it wasn’t him who tattled. It was probably Oracle, indirectly. Overseer is kinda her job when Batman’s gone. Not that he would need the help to keep track of what's going on in Crime Alley.

Jason also leans back, mirroring Bruce, a pose that looks more casual than it feels. "I presume you already have suggestions."

"If you're asking for suggestions I'd be happy to brainstorm, but I'd rather hear what you have in mind."

"I can assure you things will be under control shortly."

"I'm glad to hear that, but you understand that I'd like more assurance than your word that you have the proper support to take this on."

This line of conversation is going nowhere fast. They're both stubborn as hell and their polite choice of words barely disguises the fact that they're both ready to hard ball to a stalemate.

“I'd just like to know what your plan is, kiddo.”

Of course, Bruce is genuinely concerned. Tim was right in thinking that Bruce might push for more; use this as leverage to gain ground, albeit not in any capitalizing way. It's not like Bruce isn't voicing some the same threads of concern Tim had when he had broached the territory line however many nights ago.

"I'm not your kiddo."

He doubts Todd sees it that way.

Bruce lets out a long exhale but doesn't say anything to that, waiting him out. 

Bruce is not directly asking for Jason for anything in exchange, and Tim doesn't think he's going to. However, he's also not going to step away from this without having Jason concede to something. And it’s going to have to be Jason’s idea or he’s never going to agree with it. It's basic loss aversion; Bruce is not going to suggest a loss up front.

Jason has no way to assuage Bruce's concerns without accepting terms that would encroach on his territory, freedom, or operational autonomy. He's already limited these by his agreement to play by Batman's rules. He doesn't have any easy bargaining chips that aren't threats.

The thought immediately crosses Tim's mind that a threat of killing someone would definitely give Jason the leverage he needs.

But no. He wouldn't. He could threaten to go back on his side of the agreement, but Bruce could too and then there's no chance in hell this non-profit would get legs.

Jason breaks first.

"I understand what you'd like, but what I'm offering you is an outlined opportunity, one that will make a greater impact on averting future gang wars and lessen overall mafia control," Jason says.

Bruce takes a moment to answer. "My worry at the moment is not for Gotham."

He can tell that irritates Jason badly, the tension in his body increasing instantaneously, and Tim has to fight the part of his mind that automatically clocks him as a potential threat.

Part of him gets it. Talking to Bruce when he's in his calm negotiation mode is like running into an apologetic wall; you run headlong into it enough times and it starts to piss you off no matter how many times it says sorry.

Bruce doesn't look worried about it yet, but Tim is very aware that Bruce can lose his temper too. And based on the last year, Jason is leading the tally on his ability to get under Bruce's skin.

He wonders if Bruce is just going to wear Jason down this way, or if he's going to give in and finally suggest something specific to haggle about.

Neither seem like good options.

The silence is thick between them, another stalemate, Bruce with his neutral face and Jason with too much tension to be neutral's cousin.

Tim doesn't have a loaded solution for them, especially not one he knows Jason would approve of him voicing. He's not supposed say anything about the deal Red Robin worked out with Red Hood. For more access in Crime Alley, he already agreed to not update any records in the Batcave's super computer— _and_ he has to triple encrypt anything he does record—in part just so Bruce doesn't know about it until Jason wants him to. He promised as much as a conditional not three days ago.

He feels his eyes widen when it hits him, suddenly, that he's also here as Jason's leverage.

"You seem frustrated," Bruce says to Jason, breaking first this time. 

"No."

"No?"

"Of course not. I understand your concerns," Jason says, tone sweet like he means it even though the words scream _fuck you_. "That's exactly why I'm inviting Drake here to patrol Crime Alley."

The brilliant thing is, Jason's not giving something that he hasn't already agreed to.

Bruce has been eerily neutral so far and oh so careful, but his stone exterior cracks in surprise. He looks at Tim like he forgot he was there, eyebrows raised, and Tim looks back, eyes still wide. Is he supposed to act like this is a new suggestion? After a long second, Tim just nods. Let Bruce interpret that. 

"That's…good," Bruce says, sounding like he's not sure if it's actually good or not. "Are there restrictive conditions to that agreement?" 

"Yes," Jason says, and then adds nothing else. Silence reigns again. Bruce looks over at Tim like he's going to be the one to crack and tell him what the conditions are, but he's not going to. Because the thing is, he's only going to be allowed to patrol on cases that start outside of Crime Alley. It's not exactly the biggest help to Jason's recent predicaments. Telling Bruce will not make Jason's case stronger.

And Jason is counting on him not to mess up his leverage because it's also Tim's reward.

Bruce sighs.

"I suppose that does answer some questions," he says, tone morphing back to a casual neutral, words slow and calm. It's a tone used for tactical negotiations with violent-prone individuals, and it's how Tim knows he's about to say something they're not going to like. "I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm not sure if a limited patrol addition will be reliable enough. A support network tied up in contingencies is not a proper support network. You're going to get sick or injured or worse trying to do too much." A lengthy pause, "Perhaps an additional member could supplement in addition to Tim."

It's the first thing Bruce has suggested and it's also a clear rejection of Jason's offer. Todd just stares at him, dead-eyed. Tim holds his breath.

 _Give an inch, take an entire borough_ , he thinks a bit hysterically.

"I'm not letting more bats into my territory." 

Bruce knows better to stay away from this kind of back-and-forth haggling he's steering them towards. He's being uncharacteristically honest with his thoughts. Dick would probably be thrilled to hear that's the case but haggling for compromise creates losers on both sides and Jason's absolutely the type to subscribe to the old adage _no deal is better than a bad deal._

_"_ Jason—"

"Bruce," Tim interrupts. "I think I'll be enough for a trial run, at least. It will take a while for this project to get going anyway. We can always adjust to new problems when things actually start rolling and with more time we can get more accurate projections as to the amount of direct involvement it will entail."

Bruce is actually quiet for moment. Tim keeps talking, "I think this could help a lot of people. It's something that could've helped Steph's family. Or Cass when she first got to Gotham and didn't have anyone." He hesitates, knowing Jason never told him this himself, information gleaned way back from when he discovered the identity of his predecessor. "Or Jason when it was just him and his mom. They all could have used programs like this to get on their feet."

He thought this approach might help with some emotional appeal towards Bruce, but it's Jason that goes very still, surprised. He doesn't look entirely happy, and Tim has to stop himself from curling up, suppressing the innate urge to move away.

Bruce can’t hide his own brief frown, the corners of his mouth pulling down in an expression that Tim can't quite make sense of. Jason somehow notices, exhaling a small derisive sound.

"Nice try, replacement, but B here doesn’t have any love for my mom."

"No?" Bruce asks, careful eyes flicking to Jason's face.

"No." That one word is deceptively calm, sickeningly sweet. "Isn’t she the whole reason I’m a fuck up? Couldn’t have been anything else."

There's a spark of something less than calm in Bruce, and it betrays his frustration.

"She certainly didn’t help."

 _"Don’t.”_ It's the first time that night Tim feels danger rise like a tangible grip, his brain sending alerts of a threat. He finds himself automatically glancing around to gauge the most vulnerable civilians.

"Why don't we— " Tim says.

"I know what she did, Jason. I've made mistakes but I’m not going to pretend I’m the only one who’s—"

"She didn’t do _anything_."

"I know you loved Catherine,” Bruce says like he’s trying to reason with him, clearly not properly de-escalating. “She still let things happen to you. I don't think you—"

It's too late, even as Bruce talks he can already tell that it’s worse, so much worse, Jason suddenly spring loaded, instantaneously vibrating with contained rage, which in turn has Tim breaking out in a sweat, heart kicking up like a caged jackrabbit. If Bruce is trying to throw him off, it’s working. He doesn't even know why they're talking about this. 

"You have no right to even say her name. You fucking let me die, is that better?"

Jason is shaking, small tremors in his shoulders as breaths through his nose. Alarms blare in Tim's mind, frozen against the violence he knows is coming, completely lost as to how they've plummeted so far into this deep pit in less than a minute, derailed by the black swan of Catherine Todd.

There's a crash in a few tables over, a plate shattering loudly against the hard floor.

Jason abruptly stands and starts to grab at his papers in several rough movements. " _If you don't want this, fine. I'm not a fucking charity_ _,_ " he spits out.

" _Jason._ " Bruce goes to grab his arm but he jerks away from the table and stalks towards the door, papers roughly crumpled against his chest.

Tim watches the tense line of his shoulders disappear through the doorway before he lets himself breathe. It doesn't feel like relief.

Neither him nor Bruce move, Bruce looking more tired than Tim's ever seen him.

"Shouldn’t we…" Tim weakly gestures after Jason.

Bruce shakes his head. "If I go after him now it's going to end in a fistfight. Best to let him blow off some steam."

"With some petty criminals?" His heartbeat is still attempting to calm itself.

Bruce looks at him, then sighs, long and pained. "I’ll ask Barbara to keep tabs." He reaches for his phone and types something out. "You should go check on him. He’s made you his counterpart on this."

He makes a very good point as much as every instinct tells him to stay far away. His tentative rapport is probably deteriorating with every second he stays here with Bruce. 

Tim slips out his seat, glancing around the booth even though he knows there's nothing for him collect. 

His gaze catches on Bruce again, who's looking at his glass of ginger ale, fingers idly resting at its base.

"Was that strategic?" Tim asks, hopeful despite knowing otherwise.

Bruce doesn't look up. "...No."

He sounds like he's about to say more, but then doesn't. He sounds as tired as he looks. 

"Sorry. I didn’t know…" Tim struggles to find the words. _He's sorry that he intervened? That he mentioned Jason's mom? That he blew up this chance for relationship repairment?_

Bruce does look up then, expression serious. "It’s not your fault, Tim."

Tim nods, but it does nothing to assuage the bad feeling. 

He leaves Bruce there, following Jason's trail out the door.

Jason is long gone, but there's a small fire in a metal garbage can a couple doors down that catches his eye, glowing softly against the cold, dark street. Something tells him to move closer, heart sinking. There he finds the remnants of Jason's project, a manila folder covered in ash and half-eaten by flames.

-

He can't breathe, shaking against the tide of anger sweeping through his veins, vision tinged with green, _always fucking green_. He stumbles into an alleyway, away from the street, and forces numb fingers to unfold and pull his useless body upwards towards the sky, towards more air, away from the danger he poses on the ground.

Fuck Bruce, he doesn't know _anything._

He gets a leg over the top ledge of the building and pulls himself over, rolling once away from the edge in time for a vicious wave of mad rage to break over him, washing over his mind like the paralyzing screeching of tearing metal, any resistance reduced to a sliver at the boundaries of thought. He clings to that sliver, clenching his teeth against the visceral need to hurt something, to tear and slash and hack and mangle for that glorious feeling of righteous fury. He can already feel the slick blood on his hands, the feeling of lacerated flesh giving way to a serrated blade, the cloying smell of rot and smoke.

He digs his nails hard into the flesh of his palms and when that doesn't do the trick he grips his head with both hands, digging his nails hard into his scalp, increasing the pressure on the sides of his skull and forcing himself to fucking focus.

The rage feels good—it always does—pulling at him like a seductress who offers power to the weak. It takes several long minutes for him to wrestle it back down enough to get a proper breath. Another minute until he trusts himself to move, sitting up away from the cold press of concrete to press his face into his hands, the balance of his mind precariously skewed.

He shouldn't have picked a fight, he knows he shouldn't have responded that way, but Bruce's stonewall expression made him want to punch his stupid face and then he had the audacity to make that fucking face of disgust at the mere mention of his mom, like he had any right to an opinion. Like the confusing jumble of memories from his childhood is up for fucking debate.

Bruce doesn't even know. He made it sound like… No. He doesn't know.

Jason's fine. She didn't even do anything back then, didn't even know at first, and he's the one who begged her not to tell because then she'd get taken away and—

 _No. Fuck. Just don't think—stop thinking._ He shoves himself away from the ground and the encroaching green. He should just—he needs—

He slaps the side of his head with a growl, hard, then again with the heel of his hand. Then once more. _Focus, goddamnit._

All he just wanted to do was start something that would actually help people. With jobs, with stability, purpose, resources. Something that would make a fucking dent in the endless drudgery of vigilantism, that would act proactively instead of this frantic fucking mopping up of problems. And fucking Bruce wants to put it on pause. Of course he does, it's not Scarecrow or the Joker or any of those fucking clowns with their gimmicks. It's for real fucking people and Bruce is saying no because Jason _isn't doing a good enough job._

He laughs, and it sounds rough and crazy to his own ears, tinged with hysteria where he sits alone on his ass on top of some godforsaken building. His face feels wet.

Bruce wants to see Crime Alley's problems improved? Fine, he'll fucking mop up the problems like the good, obedient drug lord he is, with two guns and a hundred targets. What's a little city-wide terror for the sake of a life-changing humanity project?

He laughs again and it feels good, the green narrowing around his vision again. He's finding it harder to care.

No. _Fuck_ he can't be out here in the open, can't think straight, panic creeping in even as it drives him to his feet. He needs to get underground, lock himself in a safehouse until he can—

His phone buzzes once in his pocket, and he remembers: _Grayson._

He clings to the thought like a lifeline, letting his feet carry him off the building and onto another. Then another. His mind emptying against the call of motion. It doesn't matter. None of it matters, not Bruce or his mom or strange hands. He just needs to get to Dick. He'll contain him. He'll take him out of his mind and hold him together.

He's at Dick's building. He's in the bright hallway outside his door. He's pushing open the door with hands that feel a million miles away.

He just needs—he needs—

"Jason, hey," Dick says cheerfully, standing from where he was crouched in front of the fireplace in the living room, voice happy for one second until Jason pushes right up in his space and flattens him against the brick wall. "What—?"

He shuts him up with his mouth, kissing him like he's dying. He's shaking apart, clinging, trying to climb inside him, wants to drown in him. Needs him to overwhelm this tangle of bitter rage, needs to fade away and knows exactly what will do it. He reaches for the button on Dick's pants, fighting against hands that try to catch his wrists, fighting against his own apprehension. He pulls back to say two words, fumbling fingers getting the button open.

_"Fuck me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whoa, hey!"
> 
> "Fuck me," he repeats, working against the tight grip Dick has on his forearms, yanking at his zipper.

"Whoa, hey!"

" _Fuck me_ ," he repeats, working against the tight grip Dick has on his forearms, yanking at his zipper.

"Jason, slow down. S _top_." The hands tighten and he struggles against them until Dick suddenly lets go, only to shove him hard against both shoulders. It forces him a single step backwards, barely anything with how the wild tension is thrumming through his body like a storm. He doesn't understand what Dick is saying, why he's being like this. He reaches for Dick’s hips again, goes to shut him up with his mouth again but Dick brings up a leg and pushes him back with the full leverage of his foot, driving Jason backwards several stumbling steps and putting space between them.

"Slow down." Dick's voice sounds like it's underwater. He's looking at him warily from his spot against the wall, one hand working at re-zipping his pants, the other held out like he's placating a wild animal.

Jason can feel his breaths coming hard and fast.

"Just fuck me." It comes out a growl, desperate around the edges. He needs to not be here, in his head, even if he ends up back there with the strange hands. He wants to hurt. He doesn't want to _think_.

"We’re not having sex like this. Okay?"

It's not a question. And it's not _fucking_ _okay._ He's shaking. He can't tell if it's panic or residual rage, waiting to wash him away. No. He needs—he digs his nails back into his head.

"What? Hey—” The sudden touch on his arm startles him. He didn't see Dick move, but his hands firmly pull at his own, pulling them away from the fresh pinpricks of pain. He lets them. Dick squeezes his hand. "What happened? Tell me what you need."

 _Fuck me,_ he thinks, vibrating with tension. He closes the distance between them, stepping into Dick's space. Dick lets go of his hands to allow him in, bringing his arms up around him, encircling him. 

He clings to Dick's body, fingers bunching in his t-shirt along his back, face buried in his shoulder, gulping in air like he can breathe him into his lungs if he just tries hard enough.

Dick pets down his back and his skin breaks out in goosebumps, a painful rush that makes him shiver. He can't breathe right. Dick doesn't want him like this. He's not appealing enough, of course not, blazing in like he's running from hellfire. Dick likes it slow. He needs to make it worth it if he's wants Dick help to quiet his fucking mind. He can do that. Make it good.

He slowly unclenches his fists from Dick's shirt, lets his hands drop to Dick's hips as Dick continues to rub his back. Then oh so carefully, he pulls Dick into a single grind against himself. 

"Jason." It's a warning, the hands frozen in place, paused from their soothing path. Jason rocks into him again and Dick starts to pull back and all he can think is a frantic _no,_ tightening his grip. "Okay, Jay. Okay, let's just breathe for a second," Dick says even as he presses at Jason's shoulders, trying to extrapolate himself so they can fucking talk. He's so fucking done with talking. He's so fucking done, and Dick isn't _helping him_.

He shoves at Dick, giving him the space he clearly wants. " _Fuck you._ " He can feel the rage lick at his heels.

"Jason. You need to calm down."

"What do you want from me?" He laughs, a wild, harsh sound that makes Dick blink. Aren't they dating? Shouldn't Dick be happy to fuck him?

"The answer is no, Jay."

He's on Dick before he thinks to move, thoughtlessly rushing him and catching him around the middle, driving him off is feet and slamming him against the shelves in the living room with a frustrated scream, the rage rushing in to consume him. Something crashes to the ground. He can't see through all this fucking green, like blood on teeth and the screech of metal. _No,_ something pleads.

" _Fuck me!_ "

Dick grapples with him for half a second before he gets serious, freeing himself with a upward and outward sweep of his forearms, jumping to push Jason back with a flat-footed kick to his solar plexus. It pushes the air out of him and sends him sprawling.

"No," Dick says. He stands by the shelves, the line of his mouth set, eyes sharp and full of concern. "You need a fight, Little Wing?"

Jason struggles to his feet, sucking in air, trying to blink away the fucking green so he can focus for just one second. His heart is already beating in anticipation. His hands are shaking. He can't fucking do it.

He stops fighting against himself and takes a swing at Dick, a wild punch that Dick ducks to dodge. His fist glances a shelf and something else shatters to the floor. 

He stops thinking and comes at Dick full force, an uncoordinated struggle. And Dick is everywhere, blocking and dancing around him like a leaf in his storm. He doesn't let him land a single fucking hit and he doesn't hit back, dancing out of reach and pushing Jason back, tripping him up again and again.

"Stop coddling me," he growls, climbing to his feet again after Dick's got him on his back for the third time. He can feel sweat dampening the back of his neck. They're both panting.

"Come on, then," Dick says, stance wide and ready for impact. “Give me what you’ve got.”

Jason does. He swings and throws and shoves and gives and is met with steady resistance, a reliability in this temporary world of generated chaos. He gets Dick in the chest with a side kick before he can redirect Jason's momentum, sending Dick crashing into the edge of a couch. Dick rebound-kicks off the wall to get enough height leverage to send them both crashing to the floor. They keep ending up back on their feet. Dick knocks over a plant jumping back from a leg sweep. Jason knocks a picture frame off the wall with back of his head.

He forgets why he's doing this. He just knows that the urge fight and tear and render is pulsing through his veins. He thought he didn't want to fight. That's why he came here. Because he needs to—

He needs.

Jason goes for Dick's pants—ignoring his yelp—but Dick is there, shoving his hands to the side in a block, grabbing his shoulder to spin him around and push him away. It's a hard push, and he has to catch himself from faceplanting against the wall. Dick is right there behind him already, crowding into him chest to back, pressing his body tight against the wall, holding Jason's wrists firmly against its surface.

“Stop," Dick breathes, holding him there. The feeling of Dick's body against him like this is a shock, his own body confused whether it should remain tense and fight or just surrender.

Dick presses him harder into the wall, and just like that the fight goes out of him. His heart is still beating fast in his chest, muscles suddenly weak like water.

They just stand and breathe for a long time.

"Okay now?" Dick murmurs.

He doesn't want Dick to move but all Jason can do his shake his head, rocking his forehead pressed to the cool surface of the brick. His breath is coming in smaller gasps, like he can't get enough air again. He feels like he's falling apart.

Dick doesn't make him answer, and he doesn't move away. He just readjusts his hold on Jason's wrists so he can encircle them completely with his fingers. So they're not pressed so tightly to the rough surface. Dick just holds him together as time stretches, his chest steadily expanding and falling against Jason's back, his thumb brushing against the inside of Jason's wrist, where the skin is thin and sensitive and the blood is a nick away.

"Breathe, babe." Dick's breath is hot against his neck and then he goes and presses a comforting kiss to the same spot, a soft press of lips, and Jason _breaks_.

_"Please…"_

Dick pauses, lips still pressed to his skin, the air full of hesitation, and goddammit he's going kill something if he has to beg again. He wasn't made to grovel. 

"Dick…" he grits out, frustration evident to his own ears, but he can't make himself say anything more, to ask _again_. The confinement of Dick's arms around him is suddenly just that: confining. He struggles weakly against his hold. If Dick isn't going to give him what he needs then he'll figure something else out. He doesn't fucking need this. He struggles even as they both know letting him wander the street tonight is a lurking disaster.

He thinks he's free when Dick's grip loosens for a second, but then it suddenly tightens again, Dick seemingly making up his mind. "Okay, Jay. Okay. I've got you." Another kiss to his nape. "You're okay."

Jason doesn't quite believe him, but he stops struggling, gasping for air. He lets Dick ease him away from the wall enough to bring his wrists in to his chest, wrapping an arm around him to keep his arms tucked to his body. He holds him there like he might collapse without the full support of the wall. Then, with the other hand, he goes for Jason's pants, unbuttoning and unzipping them onehanded. His hand dips below his waistband and he takes Jason in hand.

Jason shivers at the jolt that goes down his spine and pools in his belly—anticipation or apprehension, the difference is fuzzy. He stares at the pattern of the brick in front of him, dazed. 

"I've got you," Dick says, slowly stroking him, a confined movement. He lets the feeling of Dick's hand on him—Dick's body against his back— seep into his full awareness like a slowly expanding balloon, pushing out every thought to the edges of his mind and leaving nothing but empty space. He shivers at Dick's lips ghosting over his neck, feels the sparks send shocks up his spine. It takes a long time to stroke him to hardness, his body at war with his mind, threatening to impale the blessed emptiness. But instead of breaking, the emptiness suddenly grows heavy, threatening to drag him deeper, looming like a tangible shadow.

"Can't." The words leave Jason unbidden, overwhelmed, blinking against memory.

Dick immediately pauses. "Want me to stop?"

A spark of panic stabs at him. "No! Please, no, I just—." He just doesn't want to step backwards into the rage. The brick slowly comes back into focus. He's fine. "I'm fine."

Dick strokes him once more, grip tighter, and Jason makes a small shocked sound— _ah_ —and then Dick is letting go of him completely to bodily turn him around. He pushes Jason's jacket down off his shoulders, trapping arms at his side, and then he presses Jason's back to the wall. He steps close to kiss him long and good and pushes his pants down just enough to free him so he can take him back in hand, which earns him another sound, muffled against his mouth.

The kiss breaks and lips press along his jaw. Jason leaves his eyes closed, feeling more small sounds escape like aborted whimpers as each pass of the callused hand grows slicker, feeling halfway to overwhelmed.

"Shh. I've got you," a voice says. There's more kisses to his neck, his jawline. Jason doesn't think he could move if he wanted, floating in the darkness behind his eyelids and letting himself be touched. Offering himself up. Waiting for the hands to turn him back around and bend him over and—

The heavy emptiness rises again and he reminds himself it's what he wants. He leans into it this time. It's the slow drop that's terrorizes him. If he could just make the single plummet he won't have to worry about it. He tries to get lost in the feeling of hands and lips, let himself drop down down and fade out like static, but it's not quite enough. If the hands were just a little rougher.

The hand has stopped.

"Jay…Jason." It doesn't sound like it's the first time his name's been said.

"Please," he chokes out. _Please_ , he thinks into the darkness.

The body pressed against him moves back and takes the warmth with it. There's too much space between them but he doesn't dare move. He knows what happens when he's not quiet and good. A hand tilts his chin up.

"Look at me, Jay. You're safe."

The shiver is definitely apprehension this time, but Jason obeys and drags his gaze open to…Dick's.

Dick searches his face for something, gives him a sad smile as he brushes wetness from Jason's cheeks with a thumb. "You have to stay with me."

Jason looks away, but Dick is there, pressing against him. He kisses his face, presses his lips against the tear tracks under his eyes, one and then the other. Then he kisses his lips, closed and gentle until Jason opens to let him in and Dick licks into his mouth, tracing his upper lip with his tongue. Jason's knees go weak and that's when Dick takes him back in hand, stroking him, capturing his muffled cry with a kiss. 

His whole body shudders. His hands go to move to Dick's shoulders, needing to ground himself against the liquid pleasure pooling in his gut, but his arms are still caught at his side by his jacket. Dick stops again to help him strip it off, dropping it somewhere. He keeps stopping.

"C'mere," Dick says, and then he's being pulled away from the wall. Dick plants a foot and trips Jason backward into a controlled dip to lay him on the ground on the rug, near the fireplace. Jason lets him, stunned at the sudden change in gravity. At his own submission. Dick follows him down, lays his body over his with his knee between his legs. He can feel the heat of the fire on the side of his face. He can feel Dick's weight on him.

Dick captures his mouth and kisses him like a languid question. Jason does his best to respond and then Dick kisses him like he's coaxing him to relax. He tries not to think about how he's laid out now. _All the better to fuck you, my dear._

He reminds himself it's what he wants. He's going to be good and let the wolf eat him. Part of him shivers at the thought and he tells himself this will be better. He can feel Dick through his pants only half hard where he's pressed against his own hip and he knows he's not doing enough. It's not Dick's fault he's too much of a mess to entice. His finds his hands laying limp at his sides and convinces them to hold on to Dick's waist. He pulls him in, letting him know it's okay to take what he needs.

So of course Dick immediately shifts to pull his hips away, kissing away the questioning sound that leaves Jason's mouth. He presses one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before peeling one of Jason's hands away from his own body to press it to the carpet above Jason's head, putting his weight there to pin it and keep him where he wants. He presses their foreheads pressed together, blocking out everything except their own private world of shared breath.

"Stay with me," Dick says again, and then works a hand between them to reclaim Jason, his pants still open and askew. His grip is steady and he circles the head with a thumb, pressing down and making Jason gasp and jerk against where his hand is pinned.

Dick works him over steadily, not trying to draw it out or rush to the end, looking down at him and watching his face, his body, his reactions. Jason shakes and tenses and shivers and tries to stay like Dick wants just as he keeps him steady, eyes flickering to his face with every sound that escapes his throat, coaxing him to open his eyes every time they want to close—whispers of _eyes on me, there you are_ —dragging him back to the present again and again every time panic edges in and emptiness threatens.

He finds his free hand still on Dick's waist and he lets it wind around Dick's back, feeling the tense muscle under his shirt like if Jason can hold on to his body he can convince himself that it's just Dick and no one else.

The pleasure pools in his gut, and his muscles tense with tremors—body fighting for it or against it, he doesn't know. He curls the fingers of his pinned hand around Dick's fingers, feeling flushed and firelit, waiting for the inevitable even as it slips away like a receding wave over and over. Dick presses his lips to his face, his wet lashes, his eyelids. He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but he still feels bare under the lights. It's too much. It's not enough.

"More. Please," he gasps, beyond caring.

" _Fuck_ ," Dick whispers, not unaffected for once. "Okay. I told you I've got you, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere," he says, even as he lets go of Jason's pinned hand and sits up. Jason doesn't follow, feeling heavy and brittle. He can feel Dick move back, down his body, can feel his own curiosity catch at what Dick's doing, why he's moving away, at the wetness tickling his own temples.

And then Dick is tugging his pants down to his thighs and Jason lifts his hips for him without thinking. And then Dick is rucking up Jason's shirt and pressing wet kisses to his stomach, his palms running along Jason’s sides in several passes. 

Jason drags his eyes open and lifts his heads to look down only to meet Dick's gaze, already watching him. Dick wets his lips then takes his cock in hand, stroking it twice, twisting his wrist at the top, making it clear what he's wants to do.

"We’ve already done this, remember? And nothing bad happened," Dick says.

"Yeah," he says shakily. He asked for this.

"You need to get out of your head? Need me to help you?"

"Yes," he says. The sight of Dick's lips so near his cock is making him dizzy. And then Dick goes licks up his length with the flat of this tongue and _Oh god_.

He lets his head fall back, all thoughts dissipated with his body's static anticipation. With the feel of Dicks hand petting the bare skin of his side. Waiting like torture.

"I'll help you relax." Dick says. "Get you out of your head. Make you feel good, baby. But you have to stay with me."

His chest is heaving. Where would he go?

"Jason, can you stay with me?"

"Yeah."

And then Dick is taking him down and it's warm and wet and then there's tight pressure and Jason's body arches _hard_ , hands flying to the source of debilitating pleasure only for his fingers to tangle in Dick's hair. Dick catches his hips with his hands, pins them to the rug, and doesn't let up, pushing his lips down until Jason feels them at the base of his cock, swallowing his length down his throat and creating on onslaught of sensation and obscene sound.

"Oh my god. _Oh my god._ " His breath stutters from his lungs. His eyes roll up in head, breath coming out in pained whimpers.

"You're okay," Dick says, pulling off. His hands soothe down his shaking legs. "I've got you." He strokes him with his hand one, two, three times. "That's it, Jay."

He takes him back into his mouth and Jason curls up, stomach clenching and sending tremors through his limbs. His hands shake in Dicks hair. The waves lap at him harder this time, and he's suddenly terrified of drowning.

"Dick," he gets out.

Dick doesn't pull off, but he catches Jason's hand with his own, laying their conjoined fingers down by his hip and holding them tight. Jason grips his hand like a lifeline.

Dick takes him shallow this time, tongue pressing into the sensitive underside, pushing his lips down again before pulling back, repeating the motion until Jason's breath hitches in his throat. Dick sucks at his tip and strokes the base with his free hand in a well-coordinated move, and Jason lets out the loudest sound he's ever made, something that can't possibly be coming from him, half-pained and entirely overwhelmed.

He thinks he's dying, body pulled taut and about to shatter.

Dick lets up and Jason slumps, letting his hand fall away from Dick's head and sucking in air at the reprieve. He can't stop shaking.

"You okay?"

Jason swallows, eyes squeezed shut, and looks for his voice. "Dunno," he manages. He was really close to being thrown over the edge not thirty seconds ago and he's thrumming with anxiety. Something about this is not what he was expecting, not how this was supposed to go, but his ability to form coherent thoughts—to puzzle out what's catching at his mind— has long since been obliterated by Dick's hands and mouth and body.

"Want to stop?"

"I…" Does he? How did they even end up here.

"There’s no right answer, whatever you want," Dick says. He presses a gentle kiss to his hipbone, and something in Jason's chest swells. Fuck, he's not going to cry again. He turns his head away, towards the heat, and blinks his eyes open. He stares into the fire for a handful of breaths before answering.

"No. Please don’t stop."

It feels like forever before Dick answers, giving his hand a squeeze. "Alright," he says easily. "I've got you."

And then the warm, wet, pressure is back and the wave rises like it never left, and he wills his body not to fight it and he wills his mind to stay because _Dick wants him to stay._

Dick's free hand leaves it's place on his hip and finds his way to Jason's inner thigh, tracing a path across bare skin as Jason slides his thighs apart for him, as much as he can before his pants constrain the movement. He feels the back of Dick's knuckles press lightly against his balls and then Dick's thumb starts rubbing gentle circles against space behind his them, slick with saliva. He presses his thumb down at the same time he takes Jason deep into his throat and swallows, and Jason's hips stutter of their own volition, too breathless to warn that he's close, the only sound leaving his mouth little gasps _ah, ah, ah._

Dick pulls back to breath, the sound pornographic, but then he's back, doing something with his tongue that makes Jason's toes curl, not letting up.

" _Gah_."

And then that thumb behind his balls travels down to pull at his ass cheek, running along the dip between them until it finds his puckered entrance. Dick gently strokes over it, the angle awkward, a repetitive motion that has Jason shaking, twitching and breathless as he holds Dicks other hand in a death grip.

He grits his teeth at the building pleasure, muscles in his stomach and legs jumping like electrocutions, and then Dick dips his thumb inward, just a hint of pressure at his hole as Dick swallows around him and all the air is suddenly punched out of him as the wave crests as he’s thrown over the edge.

The world turns white as he loses against the current and fire rushes through his body like a surge of crushing pressure. It washes out from his gut and sweeps throughout his body and Dick works him through it, wave after wave, unending. He doesn't know if he makes a sound, mouth open in shock and eyes squeezed shut tight. Doesn't know how he could with the pressure around his lungs making oxygen impossible, pleasure leaving no room for thought until, finally, it releases him.

The first breath is like relief, a deep gasp and exhale that leaves his body lax, strength sapped and body unresponsive as it tries to process the whiplash of sensations. Of nothing where there was just wet heat and tight pressure.

For a while there’s nothing except the slow, heavy breath in his lungs and his hazy mind, everything too far away to register behind his closed eyelids.

Except Dick's hand, still holding his own. He feels Dick lifts their fingers to press a kiss to them, a strange gesture.

"Hn," he responds, feeling heavy but here. He can feel Dick smile against his knuckles before he lowers them, but he doesn't let go.

The fire is making his skin warm, and Dick is here, holding his hand.

He comes back to himself, slowly at first and then with rising dread, anxiety trickling back in. He really just— and then he—

He opens his eyes. Dick is watching him.

"Hey." Dick smiles softly where he sits straddling one of Jason's thighs, concern in his eyes. "You back?"

Jason just stares up at him.

"Bad night?"

Jason closes his eyes and groans, tossing his free arm over his face for good measure like that can block out the fact he's lying on the living room floor with his pants half down. He doesn't even want to know what he broke. “Fucking Christ."

"It's okay," Dick says. He brushes a thumb along Jason's knuckles.

"No, it's... Sorry. I just…need a minute," is what leaves Jason's mouth. He needs a lot of minutes, replaying the last twenty minutes in his mind like he's watching a stranger. He feels cold. Clearheaded but jittery, the blank limpness draining away.

Dick actually gives him a full minute before finally shifting, letting go of his hand and moving off his body. "Be right back," he says, standing.

Jason blinks his eyes open but stays put, trying to pull himself back together.

Dick's not gone for fifteen seconds, but Jason is nearly shivering by the time he comes back with a damp towel and a pair of sweatpants. One of his own he left here after spending the night for three nights in a row.

"Just, let me," Dick says as he kneels down by Jason's thigh. And then he's wiping Jason off with the towel, across his stomach and between his legs, toweling him off even though Dick swallowed most of the mess.

Jason doesn't bother to suppress his shiver and Dick doesn't ask. He just finishes wiping him clean and then pulls his underwear back up, nudging Jason's hip to have him help get them settled back around his hips. And then he's shifting down to work at the laces on Jason's boots like he's an invalid.

It's just as well, because it gives him a chance to lay still and regret his life and look at Dick. So lovely and perfect and fuck if Jason doesn't keep fucking things up. Dick doesn't look upset at least. He probably should be. Actually, Dick looks—

"You're hard," Jason says, surprise making his tongue loose because Dick really is. He doesn't know if Dick would be unhappy if he offered to help, but the chances are high at this point. Still, he could—

Dick glances at his face and snorts before turning back to his boot, finally getting the knotted laces undone on his right foot. It's hardly an invitation. "Don't worry about it, Jay. Apparently my body thinks you're attractive even when I'm not trying to start anything," he says. "It's all those noises you make that get to me." Dick actually flushes a little at that, and it's the most goddamn adorable thing he's ever seen.

"Not my body? Not even my personality?" Jason says from the floor, the teasing tone not quite landing right. It doesn't feel like a rejection and he doesn't press it. He doesn't even know if he would be up for it if Dick said yes, as much he was just begging him to fuck him what feels like ten seconds ago. 

"That too," Dick hums in agreement as he pulls off his second boot, entirely too serious. He sets the shoe aside before looking at him with entirely too much warmth, then crawls up to give him a kiss. It tastes like Listerine, because of course Dick took care of that too when he was gone. Dick pulls away. "You're very attractive, sweetheart," he hums, and it's Jason's turn to flush. "And very sweet when you want to be." He gives him another kiss, smiling against his mouth, and Jason doesn't point out that he wasn't particularly sweet tonight.

Dick sits up and reaches for the pants. "Think you can manage these?" he says, wiggling them. 

"I'm not injured, you dick," Jason responds, taking them from his hands and waving him off. He's never going to live this night down anyway.

Dick just laughs.

"Be right back, okay?" Dick's already moving away, scooping up the towel, presumably to put it in his dirty laundry. Or maybe he wants to go deal with his situation.

Jason lets him go but sits up. He sits there for a long second before he finally shimmies out of his dark wash pants and manages to slip the sweats on all without standing. He folds his pants and spots his jacket by the wall. Where there's also glass.

He takes in the damage of the rest of the room. It's not great, but it's better than he was expecting. The glass is from a broken picture frame, and there's a smattering of broken blue clay pieces that must have been some kind of ceramic figurine. There's also some dirt spread out from where Dick's plant is still toppled.

But the furniture is intact. Even the shelves are intact, fucking hell. And it's all contained to the living room, something that was clearly Grayson's doing. The kitchen is untouched, and over the back of the lowback couch he can see the unscathed dining room—

For the first time since barging in he notices the table in the dining room is set for a meal, two place settings in the spots they usually like to eat— _with placemats_ —and several tall candles lit between them, burning away unperturbed. It's clearly intended for them, but it's so odd, so out of place with what just happened that his brain can't quite process the image.

He feels like he's forgetting something, distant horror rising at the romantic staging.

Dick comes back into the room holding a large hoodie and a glass of water and slowly follows his gaze. "Oh. Happy Valentine's Day?"

There’s a long pause.

" _…Fuck._ "

Dick—the absolute bastard—has the audacity to laugh.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Today is the fourteenth, yes," Dick says unnecessarily, still smiling and stupidly fucking amused at Jason's incredulity.

"Oh my god, _why?_ " he bemoans, more to the universe than to Dick, incredulous at how incredibly bad he is at anything close to dating. He's been carrying around that stupid chocolate in his jacket pocket for what feels like weeks, the one that his best driver gave him. He should have done something, certainly not schedule a meeting with fucking Bruce and then _assault Dick_.

"Well, they say passion is important in a healthy relationship," Dick says, super unhelpfully.

"How are you so fine with this?"

"I was born in a circus and then adopted by a billionaire who fights crime dressed as a bat. Nothing phases me anymore." Dick crosses the room and crouches to set the water down by Jason’s hip. He hands him the hoodie and then leans in to kiss him for the umpteenth time. Jason lets him, blinking up at him when he pulls back. "C'mon," Dick says. "It's not over yet."

"You want me to stay? Seriously?" he asks, because what the fuck. He doesn't deserve this. 

Dick looks at him. "Yeah, I do."

Jason stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not the smut we deserved, but the smut we needed... or however that saying goes. 
> 
> I've been planning a little valentine's day thing in this scene for ages, back when I didn't realize how long this would be. How awesome would it have been if I had finished this last week lol. Oh well, it's still February, right? :) 
> 
> You know they're gonna have to talk, because Dick Grayson. But you know Dick's not going to push it that night, because...Dick Grayson. And you also best believe I wrote out the rest of their evening but decided to simply end it here for now. Was Dick expecting Jason? well of course, just not as early as he showed up. What did they eat for their little date night? Pizza. Real Italian pizza made by a family from Naples, delivered because Dick didn't want to make it a big deal and make Jason uncomfortable, and because of course he knows all about the interpersonal lives of the family (no relation to mafia). Do they end up eating it on the floor like a picnic in front of the fireplace after they clean up the living room because Jason is still cold? Yes, duh.


End file.
